


The Demon Within: A YUNGBLUD Origin Story

by voddyvicious



Category: Yungblud (Musician)
Genre: Demon Deals, Demons, Horror, Rock Stars, Rock and Roll, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:22:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23384464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voddyvicious/pseuds/voddyvicious
Summary: Musician. Trendsetter. Modern day Siren.22-year-old Dominic Harrison, a.k.a YUNGBLUD, is an up-and-coming British musician about to take the world by storm. More than anything, he wants to be heard in an age full of noise, and get his message out to the world.But when Dominic suddenly finds his voice holds true power, he discovers every wish comes at a cost, and there is nothing more powerful — or more dangerous — than a voice. Forced to take the stage, Dominic must pull off the performance of a lifetime to spread his message of hope and unity before it becomes a melody of mayhem and murder.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 46





	1. Killin' it

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime in the Twisted Tales of the Ritalin Club/Underrated Youth tour 2019.
> 
> This story is for anyone battling demons. To all my BHC readers: I hope you have as much fun spotting the Easter eggs as I had writing them in. ;)
> 
> Comments and kudos are LUV. 🖤

The ground trembled beneath his booted feet. In the distance, chanting. One word. Two syllables. Over and over.

Yungblud.  
Yungblud.  
Yungblud.

Backstage, Dominic Harrison knelt in a crouch, giving his bootlaces one last tug before pulling up his trademark pink socks. The crowd’s excitement reverberated through the floor as they stamped on like an army of marching soldiers.

“Five minutes,” someone called loud enough to be heard through his noise-cancelling headphones.

Two of his crew, Gavin and Jackson, rushed past carrying a bundle of props, the smell of fresh paint wafting off the flak jackets they’d sprayed neon pink yesterday in preparation for the new tour. They all wore matching black combat pants, although Dom had scrawled pink smiley faces with X X for eyes on his. Jackson propped the trio of flags, two black and one pink, next to the row of guitars. Gavin pulled two pink ski masks from his vest and lobbed one at Jackson before pulling his own over his face. His brown eyes peered at Dom as he flashed him a palm in a visual indication of the time. Dom nodded in acknowledgement.

Five minutes until everything changed.

Dom stayed crouched, allowing himself a moment of peace as he tuned out the hustle and bustle around him and offered a silent prayer to the rock gods. He pulled his focus inward and stared at the patch of ground between his boots, the worn floorboards scuffed and scratched from countless others who’d passed through before him on the quest for stardom, or at least in the attempt to claw their way out of the trenches of mediocrity. Absentmindedly, he traced a splotch of gum so old it was nothing more than a dark stain, a fading memory of forgotten voices.

One thing was for sure, Dom didn’t want to be mediocre. Or forgotten.

Touching his lips, he thought about his family, his parents and two younger sisters, then pressed two fingers to the floor. He always felt like he left a bit of his soul behind at every show but he wouldn’t have it any other way. This was where he wanted to be. Growing his fanbase. Making a difference in the world with his music. Making himself heard.

Dom stood and shook out the kinks in his legs. His heart beat to the sonorous chant beyond the curtain and his chest swelled with anticipation.

He felt the presence behind him more than heard it and slung his headphones back as a hand landed on his shoulder.

“Ready?” A familiar voice said, in an accent Dom had never been able to place.

Turning, he smiled at his manager, despite the rioting butterflies in his stomach. “Think so, Sal.” The 'th' came out as 'ff', courtesy of his Yorkshire accent.

Every musician needed a suit, and Sal, short for Salvatore Battere, was his. The dark-haired man with midnight eyes and a vulture’s beak towered over him, his lean frame gangly like taffy pulled too long. Sal was maybe a decade older than himself, but sometimes acted like he was ancient. He had about a billion eccentricities which he often blamed on life in the old country.

Despite his eyebrow-raising quirks and old school mafia look, they got along splendidly like most mismatched misfits did. Sal seemed to feed off Dom’s energy, sharing his enthusiasm for the small things. When ADHD transformed Dom into a frantic bundle of energy that had him bouncing off the walls, Sal was his guard rail. Available to lend an ear when the inevitable crash came, encourage him in the studio when he wasn’t feeling it, or offer a hug when Dom battled a down moment. Who knows how he did it, but he kept things ‘running smooth’. He was great with the crew and ensured their every need was met, and most importantly, Sal shared Dom’s vision of bringing his message to the world.

“I can’t wait to hear you tonight,” Sal rasped, voice hoarse from smoking too many spliffs with the boys. He appeared in good spirits, like he was ready to bounce around the stage with them.

“How big is the house?”

Sal inspected the cuff links of his Armani suit, a sly smile tugging at his lips. “Full. Thousand cap reached.”

Dom’s heart thumped. Finally. He’d been elated to see his name up on the marquee of the Vogue Theatre in downtown Vancouver. His elation came with a bit of trepidation that he, a 22-year-old loud-mouthed Brit, could fill the house so far from home. Dom raked black nail-varnished fingertips through his unkempt dark hair and his fingers snagged a knot, which he distractedly pushed off to the side. His hair looked best when it channelled Edward Scissorhands anyways.

No more dive bars, renovated porno theatres or hodge-podge street gigs. This is what he’d dreamt of, worked so hard for, prayed for when he sat huddled in the corner crying. All I want is to make a difference with my music, to be heard, he’d repeated to himself night after night as he’d stood in front of the mirror, envisioning his new persona. Those dark London days had hardened him and fuelled his drive. It was this or the rope.

Still, a part of him was shitting bricks.

Tom, the band’s photographer, ran up to both of them and shoved an energy drink in Dom’s face, forcing him to drink. It was an annoying yet playful antic they dubbed the Red Bull Rinse that had developed into somewhat of a pre-show ritual they filmed for social media, and Dom obliged, careful not to smudge his black lipstick as he gulped the sugary drink. He held up a hand in defeat and pulled away.

“Fook, your eyes are glowing green tonight,” Tom exclaimed in a thick Yorkshire accent, lifting his camera for a quick candid. Tommy was a northern boy like him, and looked like he stepped straight out of a renaissance painting, with chin-length blond curls and azure eyes.

“It’s the eyeliner,” Dom laughed, flattered. “Help yourself to my beauty case. Make those true blues really pop!”

Tom lifted his camera in salute and took off in search of other prey.

Sal beckoned with his fingers and pointed at Dom’s throat. Dom wrangled the headphones from his neck and handed them over. “Do you need anything else?” Sal asked.

Dom shook his head as he popped in his in-ear monitors. He knew what was on offer, but he didn’t want to get blitzed during the show. Dr. Pepper and ADHD were all the energy kick he’d ever need.

Dom didn’t have to look to know when the venue killed the lights. Screams and whistles pierced the air. The first of many.

Make them wait, make an entrance.

A staccato drum roll preceded his drummer, Michael, who insisted on drumming everything on his way to the stage, from the walls, to the road cases, to the roadies. Dom swore the drumsticks were superglued to his hands as the guy took them everywhere. Michael paused long enough to lightly tap a drumstick against Dom’s nose. “Boop,” he said and walked by without further comment, his knot of bleached blond locks bouncing as he headed for the stage. They all had their ways of getting pre-show jitters out.

“Looking dangerous, luv,” Adam purred in his Scottish accent, thumb taming a wild eyebrow above kohl-rimmed eyes as he strolled past with his Gibson 335. He had dark hair, dark eyes, svelte moves, and fantastic lips.

Dom winked and blew him a kiss. “Snog ya out there.”

The sound of the opening prelude carried backstage, horror film music over a rapid drumbeat like machine gun fire. Gavin and Jackson returned from the stage, having dropped off their black flags. They both gave him a thumbs up.

Sal reclaimed Dom’s attention by grabbing his arms and pinning him with his dark gaze. “The fans love you, Dom. They worship you,” he said, his fingers digging into Dom’s arms in an overenthusiastic squeeze. “Go out there and kill them.”

Dom wiggled out of his grasp with a laugh and grabbed his black jacket from atop one of the road cases. He pulled it over his sheer top, completing his Sid Vicious gone emo look. Sometimes Sal’s English wasn’t the best. He accepted the pink flag and microphone that Sal handed him. “You mean, kill it.”

Sal grinned and nudged him towards the stage. “Semantics.”

Sucking in a deep breath and exhaling slowly, Dom listened intently to the prelude, then stepped onto stage to his entrance cue of seizure-inducing strobe lights and sirens.

He stalked the stage behind the sheer teaser curtain like a caged beast, his silhouette larger than life before the kabuki drop. The place erupted in screams. Wielding the flag with two hands, he waved it in the air. The curtain dropped.

The roar of the crowd grew deafening now that they’d caught sight of him.

He paused, partially for dramatic effect, partially to display the flag’s slogan, and partially to blink away the spots in his eyes because he couldn’t see shit past the blinding limelight. For a split second, time hung suspended and the entire world seemed to stop just for him. Here he was, on stage with his two best mates, ready to conquer the world. He lifted the flag in salute. The words on it folded over each other, but every fan in the room knew exactly what they were, they were plastered all over town on the gig posters. “Hope for the Underrated Youth” is what they came for, and that’s exactly what he intended to give them.

He hunched over the mic. “Vancouver,” his amplified voice rose above the screams. “Are ya fookin ready?”

Cheers and whistles pierced the air.

He nodded at Mikey, who expertly twirled a drumstick in his hand. As Adam ripped out the first chord on his guitar, Dom threw the flag to the ground.  
Jackson swooped in to retrieve it, but Dom was already jumping up and down. “Let’s go!”

The crowd went mental and surged for the stage.

Adam played the defining lick of the song, deft fingers dancing over the fretboard as he strummed the riff. Dom let himself get swept up in the sweet seductive chaos of a rock concert. Channelling all his emotion, he let his voice carry, the rage, sadness, hope and elation rippling on the air as he sang.

_In a place where they fail to inspire_

_I'm drinking the bleach so that I feel the fire_

_Inside is a riot but I'm in too deep_

_A mile in_

_A mile in_

The crowd swirled into an insta mosh pit.

_I’m shaving my face with a coke covered razor._

_I press so hard it goes in deep._

_A mile in_

_A mile in_

They sang the words with him, a sea of fists pumping the air. Dom let the music take over, transforming him into a raging whirlwind of high kicks and sinful hip thrusts that simultaneously stole his very breath and gave him life. He managed a few breathless words into the mic and the crowd took care of the rest, reciting every word back to him.

_I’m a twenty-first century liability_

_Bang bang bang, it’s all bollocks_

Energy, amplified and palpable, filled the room. Their passion mutated into this writhing, growing, insatiable beast, unseen yet felt down to the bone as it fed on the heavy bass vibrations. Dom loved this about concerts. That feeling like the roof was about to blow off but then instead it imploded and stayed in the room, obliterating the line between performer and audience and leaving just the music.

The rest was a wonderful blur.

Until the fight broke out.

Dom always kept a close eye on his fans, people he considered more than just a meal ticket, but a part of his actual fookin family. He’d developed a keen sense for when mosh pit antics surpassed the norm. When he saw the brawl break out, he waved at Adam, who cut the music immediately.

“Stop fookin brawlin,” Dom spat into the microphone. His lip pulled up into a sneer that would have made Sid Vicious envious. “I can’t stand fookin fightin at my show. “You—” he pointed at a fan, “—and you.” He waved his hand, indicating that they should separate.

Security moved in to remove the instigators but not everyone welcomed his mediation.

“Just play the fucken music like we paid you to!” someone shouted.

Heat erupted in Dom’s chest. He wasn’t a monkey on the organ grinder’s shoulder.

Yeah, he wanted fans to mosh and have a great time, to go home with honorary bruises and that pleasant ache, a masochistic reminder that they’d just been at a rock show. But he also wanted them to feel safe, a place where they could escape the douchebaggery of the world, at least for a moment. Where they could dress however they wanted. Where they could identify however they wanted. Where they could love who they wanted. Where they were accepted unconditionally. But there was always one punter who insisted on being a dick. In his haven. Any threat to his sanctuary, and that of his fans, ignited Dom’s anger, a fire that he had to be careful not to let rage out of control.

This was the downside to playing larger shows. The bigger the shows got, the higher the chance that a few asshats made their way in. He’d never had these issues with headcounts of two hundred. This was, unfortunately, part and parcel of the big gig. Still, his belly roiled with growing fury and he scanned the crowd with a scowl.

If only they’d listen to him.

Dom cast a glance backstage. Sal stood, half-hidden in the shadows, arms crossed over his chest. His terse expression screamed, “handle it.”

Meanwhile, the crowd continued to jostle, the hostility palpable in the muggy heat of the venue. Dom’s knuckles went white around the mic. “Shut up!”

The ruckus subsided.

Dom brushed the damp hair from his eyes. “Seriously, if you can’t stop fookin fightin and enjoy the show then you can all drop dead, do ya hear me? Have fun or drop dead.” He squinted against the spotlight, the crowd silent like a winter grave. _Shit_. Nothing to be done about it now, sometimes you just had to roll with the punches.

He looked at Adam, who shrugged at him, hand poised over his guitar.

First show of the tour and already things weren’t going as planned. His community, self-dubbed the Black Hearts Club, aimed to be a place of refuge, not a gladiator pit. And now some twat had made him lose his cool. If he had to weed out a few bad apples from the bunch for the good of the whole then so be it. He motioned at Adam to keep the show going.

“Next song is called Anarchist,” Dom announced into the mic, pushing through his blunder.

Cheers filled the air, the sound a comfort. Adam and Michael bit into the song with fervour, and Dom let the music take over again. This time he relished it, sank into it, using it as an escape as much as his fans did.

“Don’t know where I am,” he sang, “Don’t know where I am.”

The room spun and Dom stumbled. Maybe over a guitar cable, or maybe from his own frenetic bouncing. The shapes in the crowd kept moving to the music. “That’s more like it!” he shouted breathlessly.

“I’m an anarchist, not like the other kids!” he sang and danced across the stage, feet barely touching the ground, every nerve in his body high strung, like he was being pulled in opposite directions. The pain and energy begged to be released, and he let it go and sang, jerking like a junked out marionette.

Dom tried to catch his breath, but the words kept coming and he sang with a surging power he’d never felt before.

“Dom, Dom, DOM!” Someone was screaming his name. Dom blinked, head spinning. Was that Adam? He often got so absorbed in his performance that he had a tendency to scare people but not Adam, Adam who was his rock and always so cool, calm and collected on stage. Adam’s bewildered gaze caught him off guard and he fumbled the next line. Something was wrong. Was his mic turned up too high? Was there feedback from the speakers? Dom couldn’t hear or see the crowd, and that damned light tech was still shining the light right in his eyes. He couldn’t see more than dotted shadows on the horizon.

_Ana-ana-anarchist_

_not like the other kids_

He belted out the last stanza, and peering up at the perch, lifted his middle finger in the general direction of where the lighting tech should be. “Kill the lights would ya, I can’t see a fookin thing!”

The theatre plunged into darkness. Adam mucked up the last chord. Which shouldn’t have been a big deal because the cheering crowd should have drowned it out.

If the crowd had been cheering.

His clothes clung to his sweat-soaked skin, and anxiety peeked out of his pocket. Dead air was a real concert killer. Dom covered the mic with his hand and hissed, “Take it from the top!”

Adam neared in the gloom on stage and shook his head. “Open your eyes, mate, sumthin’s off.”

Mikey restarted the drums but faltered when the venue's perimeter lights flickered back to life. His eyes went wide, and he pointed a drumstick in the crowd's direction.

Dom whirled around, sensing the wrongness before he saw it. The venue was quiet. Too quiet. His mouth dropped as he processed the scene in front of him. The sweat trickling down his back turned to ice.

Only one person was left standing. A young male pogoed like his life depended on it. Up. Down. Up. Down. He danced amid a sea of unmoving bodies scattered across the ground like discarded plastic cups at a frat party, their limbs bent at impossible angles and bodies contorted into grotesque shapes. Blood dripped from their eyes, ears, noses and mouths, their faces twisted into grimaces of pain and terror.

Dom pressed his hand to his mouth and bit back a scream. Had Sal slipped him acid? Were his anxiety and fear manifesting into a carnival of horrors? Was he finally, truly, going insane?

“Dom?” Adam warbled.

“What the fuck?” Mikey said over and over, his hands, still holding the drumsticks, pressed to his head.

“Stay here.” Gritting his teeth, Dom jumped off the stage, scrambled over the barrier, and fumbled his way to the closest fan. He pressed two fingers to her throat. Nothing. He checked another fan. Nothing. Dom scanned the crowd, desperate for help. But even the security was dead, their vacant eyes pooling with blood.  
  
Behind him, someone was vomiting on the stage, but Dom couldn’t tear his eyes away from the nightmare before him. He stood up to get a closer look at the kid at the back of the pit. Fourteen, fifteen, tops. Faded blue hair and a pierced septum, jumping in and around and on top of bodies, singing quietly off-key and pumping his fist in the air.

Couldn’t he see the bodies?

“How are they all dead?” Dom spouted a litany of curses and whirled to the stage, where Adam clutched his guitar to his chest like a life preserver.

Adam looked at him blankly. “You did tell them to drop dead.”

Dom flashed him an exasperated look. “That was a fookin figure of speech!” He returned his attention to the kid. “What are you on about, mate,” he called out, his voice sounding too loud in the still room.

No answer. Just the soft thud of boots on flesh.

“Stop!” Dom pleaded, horror twisting his stomach. “Stop!”

The kid stopped so suddenly he careened, unbalanced by the corpses beneath him. He fought to stay upright. The knot in Dom’s stomach grew. He moved, trampling over dead fans to get to the kid. Bodies squished underneath his boots, and his stomach threatened to revolt.

He reached the kid, out of breath and two seconds from spewing his guts everywhere. “What are you doing?”

“Having fun, having fun,” the kid sang in an eerie voice. Now that he was closer, Dom noticed a fanatic sheen to his eyes.

“You think this is funny?” Incredulity tinged Dom's voice. ”Are you having fun?”

The kid shook his head slowly in confusion, wavering on his feet. Dom reached out to steady him. The boy snivelled and wiped his nose. The back of his hand came back bloody.

“Have fun or drop dead,” the kid echoed, voice devoid of emotion. He convulsed twice, then crumpled into Dom’s arms. Dom sagged under his weight, brought to his knees in the surrounding mess.

“Hey!” He shook the boy but the kid’s head lolled back, eyes vacant and lifeless.

“What the fuck,” Dom wailed, clutching the kid and sobbing.

A slow clap came from the stage.

Dom looked up through his tears.

Sal stood centre stage, his arms wrapped around Adam and Mikey as if they were about to take a closing bow. Even from here, he could see the sheer terror on his friends’ faces. “Pick yourself up now, boy.” Sal’s voice was cold.

“I can’t,” whispered Dom. “I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Sure you do.” Sal grinned and pushed away from his bandmates. He moved to the lip of the stage, the ill lighting casting a skull-like shadow on his face. He clasped his hands together primly and shifted his weight to his tiptoes like an excited birthday girl readying to blow out the candles. “You killed it!”


	2. Exit Stage Left

Dom’s mouth dropped in disbelief. “No, I killed _them_.”

A dark shadow flickered over Sal’s face. “Always correcting me.” He shrugged it off and arched an eyebrow. “Well, unless you want to be a loner and a lifer, then maybe you shouldn’t dilly dally with the incriminating evidence,” he said, twirling his index finger to indicate the wasteland of corpses around Dom. Sal turned to Adam and Mikey. “Load out and hit the road, boys. This is gonna be a hell of a tour.”

Dom snapped like a guitar string. “We’re not going anywhere with you.”

Sal didn’t bother turning around as he walked offstage. “Don’t forget who did this.” 

_Me?_ Dom cried out in frustration, wishing he’d understand what the fook was going on here. His anger threatened to rampage unleashed, but the weight of the kid in his arms tempered it. Sal was right about one thing. They had to get out of here. 

Dom gently put the kid down. With trembling hands, he brushed his eyelids closed. Had he been so blinded by the lure of stardom that he had failed to see this coming? Would he have been able to stop it? Could he stop it now? Dom looked around him, the thousand lives lost, because of him, because of a mistake. 

“Get up,” he whispered, desperation twisting his voice. But they didn’t move. They couldn’t hear him anymore, and they never would. He’d never felt more like a blight upon this earth than right now. What power did he have when something obviously fooked up and otherworldly was going on?

His hands curled into fists. He’d find a way. He always did. He’d run away from Doncaster to London at age fifteen to find himself. To make it big. If he could survive the streets of London, he could survive this. Staggering to his feet, he wiped the tears from his eyes, smearing eyeliner over the back of his hand, and waded through the bodies. An exit stage left was supposed to be quiet, unobtrusive, and non-disruptive, yet here he was in a battle to get backstage, fighting through corpses, fighting through tears, fighting through his own fear of what had just happened.

The smell of vomit hit him first. Jackson and the rest of the crew were hustling to get their equipment packed up, and normally he’d help, but he weaved through them, feeling like a shell-shocked soldier in a war zone. Numb. Deaf. Disoriented. Mikey was busy retching into an ice bucket held between his knees. Blond strands had come undone from the knot atop his undercut and Dom resisted the urge to brush the hair from his face. Instead, he grabbed a bottle of water from the pack atop one of the road cases and passed it over. Michael accepted it without looking up. Dom squeezed his shoulder and moved on. Sal was nowhere to be seen. Just as well. He needed a moment alone with his crew. 

He stumbled over to the guitar rack where Adam was wiping down his Gibson with a cloth, and threw his arms around him. “You okay, mate?” he said once he found his voice. 

Adam didn’t answer but his beard scraped Dom’s cheek as he nodded. He continued to polish the guitar in a repetitive action that said he was trying not to lose his shit. Dom grabbed Adam’s face. Fear shone bright in his gorgeous brown eyes. Dom thumbed the tears from Adam’s cheeks then brought their foreheads together. “I’m so sorry, I’m so fookin sorry.”

Jackson skidded to a halt next to them. “Dom,” he started, propping his hands on his knees as he gasped for air. 

“What now?” By the look on Jackson’s face it wasn’t anything good. 

“It’s Tanisha.” Jackson took off his ball cap and wrung it between his hands. “I went to go check on her, and, and—” he stuttered to a stop and ran a shaky hand over his bald head. 

Dom felt like a glass figurine someone had just thrown off a ten story building. 

Their merchandise manager, five foot nothing, a bubbly take no BS personality, had insisted on running his merch table from day one. He gave her free reign because she’d proven herself capable. He didn’t have to think twice when it came to her.

But now she was dead, a fact he didn’t understand any more than the other thousand deaths dumping their full weight on his shoulders. The air turned oppressive, as if the souls of the deceased were clambering all over him, pressing him into the ground, snatching the breath from his lungs. He rubbed a hand over his face. 

“How did this happen?” Adam stepped back, holding his guitar like a shield between them.

Dom’s heart broke.

How could he explain this when he didn’t have a clue what was going on himself? He ran a ragged hand through his hair. He had to slap a bandaid on this shit. “Fall in, boys.” 

The crew gathered around in a semicircle. Adam gripped his guitar so hard his knuckles were white. Jackson’s face was green behind his trim ginger beard. Gavin, interning from the record company as Sal’s assistant, looked no better. His shock of thick brown hair stuck out in messy tufts as if he’d been tearing at it. Gavin usually told Dom what to do, but now he looked at Dom expectantly. Even Mikey slid the bucket aside, teary blue eyes watching him as he sipped his water. Everyone was looking to him for answers, everyone was listening, and for the first time in his life, Dom didn’t know what to say. 

Had nothing to say. 

He fiddled with the rings on his fingers, unable to meet his crew’s gaze. “I dunno, man,” he repeated over and over, vamping to buy himself time. Finally, he sighed and his breath hitched as he began to recall what had happened. “I mean, I just wanted them to stop fighting and enjoy the show, ya know what I mean? Like, I didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt. And now Tanisha, and the fans, and basically everyone except for us…”

They stood there, their collective silence growing louder and more deafening than any show. 

Finally, Adam broke the silence. “Tell me to do something, mate.”

“What?”

“Anything, like tell me to pat my head and rub my tummy. You know, something harmless.” The way he emphasized ‘harmless’ sent a stab through Dom’s heart. 

Dom’s throat turned to dust. He swallowed dry and squeaked out, “bop your nose.”

And before he’d finished the sentence, Adam tapped his own nose with his finger.

Mikey laughed in disbelief. “Yeah, sure, you’re pulling our legs with that.” Standing, he tucked his drumsticks in his back pocket and turned to Dom. “Give me something more challenging.” 

Dom thought for a minute then whispered something to Jackson, who disappeared in the direction of the tour bus. He held up his hands. “You guys can’t seriously be thinking I have some weird ass powers,” he protested, but even as he said it aloud, a part of him writhed like an eel, some electrifying truth on the tip of his tongue.

The back door slammed shut and everyone turned to watch Jackson return with a jar of pickles. 

Dom took the jar from him, twisted off the lid, and presented it to Michael. “Eat one.”

Michael’s face contorted. “C’mon, Dom, you know I hate pickles as much as you do.”

Dom knew better than anyone else. In fact, that was one of the first things they had discovered they had in common. “Eat the pickles, Mikey,” Dom said with more authority, even as his own stomach churned. 

Michael’s eyes glazed over, much like the last kid standing in the pit, Dom noted, and he automatically grabbed the jar. He pulled out a pickle, and without hesitation, bit into it. He ate without protest, sounds of disgust, or gagging. Dom’s eyebrows rose. 

Michael licked the juice off his fingers and reached into the jar for another pickle.

There was no way that he was faking this well. Cringing, Dom waved him off. “Okay, okay, I think we get the point.” 

If Michael heard him, he ignored them, biting into another pickle with fervour and a fever in his eyes. 

Adam tried to pry the jar from his hands, but Mikey gripped it like a Grammy award. 

Dom was trying to decide if his drummer would go to such great lengths to play a practical joke on him as he watched Michael eat pickle after pickle after pickle. The group rustled, disturbed, but didn’t say a word.

Adam rolled his eyes at Dom and squeezed Michael’s shoulder. “Hey, you can stop eating now.”

“Eat the pickles, Mikey,” Mikey echoed between juicy crunches. Brine dribbled over his chin and onto his shirt. Dom wrinkled his nose at the vinegary smell and suppressed a gag. 

“This is ridiculous,” Adam muttered under his breath. 

Dom watched for another minute, then succumbed. “Okay, stop eating the pickles.”

Mikey immediately did as he was told and stood there slack jawed, a half-eaten pickle still in his mouth. 

Jackson snorted. “They’re just pickles, not sheep’s balls.”

The third best guitar tech in Sheffield, as they jokingly referred to Jackson, had known Dom since he was a kid and if there was one thing he could do, it was push Dom’s buttons. 

Meanwhile, Mikey hovered listlessly, as if awaiting the next order. 

Dom would give it to him. 

“Gavin, bring me the toolkit.”

Gavin did as instructed and Dom rummaged around in it for a minute. He pulled out a box cutter and tossed it at Mikey. “Now take that knife and slit your wrists.”

The group cried out in a chorus of protests. 

Michael fumbled the catch and the knife skittered along the floor. He went after it. 

Adam lunged for Michael, but Dom held him back. “Are you fookin nuts, Dom?”

Gavin pushed Dom back, swearing. 

“Get out of my face, Gav,” Dom said under his breath. 

Glowering, Gavin did as he asked. 

Michael picked up the blade, movements erratic as he fought the compulsion. 

Jackson shook his head. Even Tommy stood there, awkwardly holding the camera, unsure of what to do. Normally he’d capture all sorts of candid shots of them doing silly things, but this was beyond silly. 

Was he going too far? 

“Call him off, Dom,” Adam begged, alarm straining his voice. 

Mikey grasped the box cutter by the hilt and yanked up his sleeve. He clicked open the blade. 

Click. 

Click.

Click. 

He pressed the tip of the knife into his skin, and Dom watched blood well beneath the tip.

“Stop!” Dom surged forward and knocked the knife from his hand. He grabbed Mikey by the arm and pulled him close. “Never, ever harm yourself again,” he whispered in his drummer’s ear. “And never listen to me again. I mean, listen to me if you want to, but only if you want to. Free choice, man.” He knew he was blubbering, but the close call left him bereft of sense. “Do ya hear me?” he said, squeezing Mikey’s cheeks together until his lips puckered. 

Mikey nodded. “Never listen to you again.” 

As soon as Dom released him, he spun and threw up the entire contents of the pickle jar onto the floor, splattering Dom’s boots with vile, green vomit. Dom didn’t even care, he stepped closer and pulled his friend into his arms. “Fuck's sake.” Mikey shook as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “That was…” He fell silent as he stared at the cut on his arm.

Dom ripped a strip off his shirt and bound his wound. “Keep pressure on that,” he said, feeling both in control and like he was losing control. The world seemed to tilt on its axis, and a dizzying head rush swept over him. He stumbled over to one of the road cases and sat down heavily. He couldn’t breathe. He clutched his chest, the tightening sensation worsening like he was clamped in a vice.

Faded skate shoes skidded to a halt in front of him. Gavin knelt before him and pressed his inhaler into his hands. “You didn’t have to take it that far.” 

Dom’s nervous laugh turned to a gasp. He fumbled with the inhaler, fingers thick and clumsy. Gavin gently took it from his shaking fingers and, placing a reassuring hand on his back, held the inhaler to Dom’s lips. 

He took a deep puff. Waited. Exhaled. 

“Better?” Gavin’s dark brown eyes regarded him with genuine concern. 

Dom sat there, a thousand thoughts flitting through his mind and none finding their way to his lips. 

He buried his face in his hands. 

Someone sat down next to him and pried his hands away. Adam smiled grimly back at him, the worry still in his eyes, but he was here, next to him. 

“What the hell is happening to me? I’m a monster.”

Adam squeezed his hand. “You’re not a monster. You’re my friend, no matter what. We’ll figure this out,” he said, standing and holding out a hand. “Together.” 

“But Sal's right,” Gavin said, tucking the inhaler in Dom’s bag and slinging it over his shoulder. “We have to go before the cops get here.”

Normally, Dom would step up to the plate and be accountable for his actions. But right now, he couldn’t provide answers that wouldn’t land him straight in jail or the loony bin. He needed a hot minute to set the record straight. He let Adam help him to his feet. “Alright. Move out, boys,” he said, and everyone rushed back into action. 

“Speaking of cops,” Dom said as he grabbed a couple of guitar cases and followed Adam out to the door, “Why aren’t they here yet?”

“Because no one’s left alive to call them,” Sal called from across the alley. He was leaned up against the tour bus with his arms crossed, watching them with a wry expression. “You sure take your time sorting out the obvious.”

Dom dropped the guitar cases and stomped up to him. Sal let his arms fall to his sides but didn’t otherwise engage.

“You!” Dom kicked the bus hard enough to leave a dent. His voice rose in a crescendo of rage. “This is all your fault. You did something to those people.”

“Hate to break it to you, kid, but that was all you.” 

“You’re seriously gonna peg this on me?” he spat, hands clenching into fists as he glared at Sal.

“As I recall, you told them to drop dead.”

“It’s a fookin figure of speech,” Dom exclaimed, feeling like a broken record. 

Sal remained unfazed, like they were discussing the weather or when the next tram was due, not the thousand corpses within spitting distance. He inspected his nails idly. “You wanted a voice, I gave it to you.” His dark eyes flicked to his. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

What the fook was he supposed to say to that? 

“What you did with my gift was up to you, and in a way, it was even better than I imagined.” Sal waved his hand like a conductor. “You have such a delicious dark side to you, Dom.” 

“A shitload of people are dead—”

“I know,” he exclaimed giddily.

“Tanisha is dead!”

Sal shrugged. “So what? Get a new merch girl. Tons of girls would kill for that job.” 

“How can you not give a shit about human life?”

“Do you throw a funeral every time you swat a fly?” 

“Then why not kill us all? Why kill Tanisha and not the rest of the crew?”

“You must be particularly dense today, Dom. Need I remind you that you are the star of this show? I am merely the manager.” He checked his watch and huffed an impatient sigh. “Use that squishy grey mass between your ears. Where was Tanisha when you bestowed the group blessing?”

Dom thought back to the group huddle they’d had earlier that day after completing soundcheck. “We’re gonna get through this show, boys. Safe and sound, loud and proud,” he’d said, as they’d huddled in a tight circle, their arms interlinked. Tanisha hadn’t been with them. Another pang of guilt struck him. “Out gettin the fookin merch, ya think?!”

Sal pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and thumbed it open. He popped a cigarette in his mouth and lit it. They stared each other down as Sal exhaled a plume of smoke directly into his face. Dom craved a smoke more than anything right now, but he wasn’t about to ask for one. Sal banged the bus with the side of his fist. “C’mon boys, we are burning daylight!” 

The boys had been giving them a wide an arc while they loaded the last of the gear. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Adam and Michael board the bus, and moved to block the doorway, one foot on the bottom step. 

“It’s night, you sick fuck,” Dom said. “What happened today will never happen again.”

Sal grinned even wider, and for a second Dom thought he saw Sal’s teeth elongate into long needle-like fangs. He blinked, and it was gone. 

“You can’t run from yourself, kid.”

“Maybe, but I’m still not going anywhere with you. You can go piss up a rope.”

Sal took a long pull of his cigarette. “Are you firing me?"

Ire bubbled up in him like a teapot boiling over. He jumped off the bus and rushed forward. Never before had he wanted to trash shit like he did on stage, to whip about a mic stand, rip a cymbal off the drum kit and send it clattering to the ground, and smash his guitar to pieces. But he wasn’t on stage. He jabbed a finger at Sal’s chest and said, “Yeah, man, I’m fookin’ firing you. You’re fired.” He flung his arm out, pointing down the road. “Now fook off.”

Sal placed a hand over his heart in mock hurt. “I’m not worthy of the great Dominic Harrison.” 

With one long step, he closed the gap between them. They stood chest to chest, and Dom’s instincts screamed for him to shy away. Nothing but fierce determination kept him rooted, even as icy cold sweat dripped down his spine. Sal stooped over and whispered in his ear. “It’s a drab rainy morning in Donny today—” Dom froze at the casual reference to his hometown “— but luckily I pack an umbrella just for such occasions.” Dom could smell the smoke on his breath. “Your two younger sisters are so cute. Quite the age gap between you and Izzy. What is she? Eleven?”

“Twelve,” Dom spat.

Sal’s smile was an eclipse. “I must have missed a birthday. I’ll have to go visit them and liven things up.” 

Dom’s jaw ached from clenching it so hard. “You wouldn’t.”

Crinkles formed around Sal’s dark eyes as his grin widened like the Cheshire cat on crack. “You know I would. And I would love every minute. Don’t bother telling them to hide,” he added, as if reading his mind. He tapped his hawk nose. “I can sniff them out anywhere.”

Stepping back, he spread his hands wide, an innocent gesture belying the darkness in his eyes. Smoke curled from between his fingertips into the brisk night air. “You may be the front runner, kid, but I call the shots. Get your house in order and hit the road to Seattle. I have business to attend to. You decide if that business involves your sisters.” 

Backing up to the bus, Dom watched Sal saunter to his black Cadillac parked across the alley. Unlocking the door and opening it, he paused and said, “You really should have kept me by your side. Who knows what trouble I can get to before the next show when I’m right there in the crowd with _your family_.” 

And with that he swung his long legs into the car and slammed the door shut. The car’s engine roared to life. The window rolled down and Sal leaned out. “Watch your back, kid, it’s a nasty world out there. And you really don’t know where you are.” He flicked the cigarette butt at Dom’s feet and drove off with a squeal of burnt rubber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, black hearts. Wow, okay, I know that was intense. Keep in mind that in a novel length story, everything happens for a reason. So this chapter may have been shocking but it all serves a purpose. With that in mind, I can't wait for you to read the next chapter with my take on Yungblud's origin story. Rock on!


	3. Smoking in Suburbia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My take on Yungblud's origin story!

Dom stepped out of the plume of exhaust and sagged against the door frame. No one had ever threatened his family before, real or fan base. Sal’s threat was another nail in the coffin and anxiety threatened to bury Dom alive. Forcing himself into motion, he staggered onto the tour bus, fatigue turning his feet to cement blocks as the night’s events caught up to him. Tired as he was, he knew sleep wouldn’t come easy tonight.

“Get some shuteye, everyone,” he called, and no one bothered him as he made his way to the back of the bus. At least his mates should find respite. 

Sal can go to hell, he thought as he dragged himself onto his bunk and drew back the curtains to his bed. A present waited for him on the comforter, a medium-sized pink gift box tied with an oversized black satin bow. Eyeing it suspiciously, he tugged at the bow and lifted the lid. 

Inside the box was a toaster. Pink, of course. The card read simply: 

_See you there._  
 _Sal_. 

Whether mind reading or simply foresight after having travelled with someone long enough to know their personality and quirks, Dom was seriously not in the mood. He wanted to chuck the toaster straight across the bus, but lacked the energy for even that. Instead, he pushed it into the corner of his bunk and curled up under the covers, hoping to get some sleep.

Two hours later, he sent out a tweet. 

@yungblud: can’t sleep.

Heart-warming replies from fans all over the world swarmed his feed, litanies of ‘get some rest’, ‘we luv ya’, ‘look after yourself,’ and countless black heart emojis that he’d claimed for his own. 

@[retracted]: count sheep.   
@yungblud: at like 240 rn.   
@[retracted]: 420 is a better number 

Despite everything, he chuckled and dropped a black heart in reply before cozying up with his pillow and scrolling through the love. Every time he felt like he was falling, he’d reach out, and they were there to catch him. He replied to as many posts as possible, thumbs rapidly tapping out black hearts, but the longer he scrolled, the more his dread grew, fearful he’d come across a post about the shitshow. It was like playing Russian roulette with a cell phone. He desperately wanted to unload his grief on someone, but he dared not admit he killed his own fans, dared not tell them how someone was going to find a thousand dead kids in Vancouver. How could he prevent disaster at the next show? And, more importantly, because sick fucks don’t stop being sick fucks, how could he stop Sal? 

Courting insomnia left him padding up and down the bus aisle. One by one, he checked on his mates to make sure they were okay. He snuck past the curtains with an uncharacteristic stealth and whispered to them before finding his own bunk and trying to sleep for the umpteenth time. 

Sleep eventually had claimed him, because some time later the braking motion of the bus rolling to a stop jerked him awake. He groaned and rubbed the crick in his neck. Probably from cuddling a toaster all night long. Wiping sleep and old makeup from his eyes, he grabbed his phone and rolled out of bed. He squinted against the bright light shining through the windows. “Fook sakes, what time is it?”

Adam pressed a cup of tea into his hands, looking as shite as he felt. “Almost noon.”

“You’re the best,” he said, accepting the cup and giving him a kiss on the cheek.

“Put a little extra something in there.”

Starting the day with alcohol wasn’t his status quo, but a shot of whisky would help take the edge off, especially after last night. Dom tapped the home screen on his phone and the screen flooded with notifications. The glimpse was enough to confirm his fear. His phone had blown up. And not in a good way. 

By the look on Adam’s face, his had too. 

With the flick of a thumb, he scrolled through endless notifications on every social media platform.

Adam watched him carefully, sipping at his own cup. “So…is the show on tonight or are we cancelling the tour?”

Dom stuffed his phone in his pocket and slid into the kitchen booth. “Not a dream, then.”

Adam barked a harsh laugh and sat down across from him. “I wish, bruh. That was the most insane shit I’ve seen in my life. Every time I close my eyes, I see them.” 

“I know,” Dom whispered, cradling his tea with both hands and wishing he could dive into his cuppa and disappear. “Ya ever wake up the next day hoping it was all just a bad dream, but then you realize it’s your reality, and it’s so surreal, because you know you’re not supposed to be in this fookin situation, but yet, here you are?”

“Here we are,” Adam echoed, smoothing his beard. 

Inhaling the fragrant steam rising from his cup, Dom bought himself a few moments to think. He sipped his tea and grimaced. “Fuck, mate, you really punched this.” 

Adam shrugged unapologetically. 

The whisky burned going down and Dom chased it, trying to retrace the road of memories that had gotten them to this point. If life were a record, then it hadn’t just skipped a track, but plunged him straight onto the B-side. But when it came down to it, he’d never really been one to think too long about a decision. Especially not when his family was at stake. He took another sip and said, “Show’s on.” 

“You can’t be serious,” Adam said. “Gavin already told HQ we’re pulling the plug.”

Dom slammed his cup down. Tea sloshed over his hand and onto the table. “Bloody hell.” He wiped his hand off on his shirt, the burn adding to his irritation.

“Why’d he go and do that?”

Adam flashed his palms in surrender. “Oh, I dunno, maybe the house of a thousand corpses was a sign.”

“That wasn’t my bloody fault.” 

“Still, it’s not the kind of encore I want.”

“It’s not just about us anymore, man.” Dom’s voice rose. He eyed his best friend, longing to confide in him, but petrified he’d be abandoned. After all, it wasn’t their family that was in danger. “It’s about them—the fans.”

“Exactly. So why is this sounding like you’re making it all about you?”

Dom ran a hand over his face, the prick of stubble scraping against his palm. It never failed. Give him a shovel and he’d dig his own grave, every time. 

Adam sighed in surrender. “Fine. Show’s on.” He set his empty cup aside. “Not like it matters. You can just tell us what to do anyways. We don’t get a say.”

Dom pointed a finger at Adam’s chest. “I would never, ever hold that power over you. I fookin love ya, and I’m trying to do what’s right here.”

A curtain rustled above them, and a pillow flew out. “Fook sakes, boys, stop squabbling already,” Michael moaned through a stifled yawn. “Some of us are trying to sleep.” His arm dangled over the bunk’s edge. Dom eyed the clean white bandage around his arm, the sight deflating his anger. Someone had re-bandaged it last night. Probably Gavin.

Dom stood to grab a rag from the sink. His eyes slid to the dirty bowl and spoon in the basin and a smile tugged at his lips. He could never stay mad at Adam for long. “Did you seriously have ramen for breakfast again?”

Adam snorted. “Don’t even start with me. Umami worship is not limited to a time of day.” 

“You have a problem, my friend.”

“So do you.” 

Dom mopped up the spilt tea. “You’re right,” he said sombrely. “Sal will be there tonight, and if I don’t show up to stop him, shit’s gonna get bad. I can feel it in me bones. This isn’t the fight we walk away from.” He threw the dishtowel into the sink and slumped back into his seat. 

“Tell him,” Tommy said, walking up from the back. 

As soon as they locked eyes, Dom knew that Tommy knew. Emotion flooded his eyes, and Dom felt the sting in his own. His photographer opened the fridge, camcorder dangling from one hand. 

“Tell me what?” Adam said, swivelling in his seat to look between the two. 

Tommy grabbed a carton of orange juice, then approached them and motioned for Dom to slide over. He placed the camcorder on the table. “Call a meeting, mate.”

Trepidation filled Dom. He knocked back the last of his tea, but before he could say anything, a bleary-eyed Michael slid out of his bunk and squeezed into the booth with them. Dark crescents lined his eyes, and a shadow lined his jaw. He pulled out his drumsticks and softly rapped a succession of six stroke rolls against the table’s edge. Gavin filed into the tiny kitchen, clutching his phone and looking horrified. He’d obviously been eavesdropping. He called over his shoulder, “Jackson, are you coming or what?” 

An affirmative mumble. 

No need to call a meeting, it was a small bus. Dom’s heart plunged into the deep end. Surrounded by his best mates, people he respected and loved, he’d never been more afraid of being alone. 

“I’ve been working with you long enough to spot your tells. I can recognize your every reaction and mood by your posture. Sal’s got something on you.” Tommy cracked open the carton and lifted it to his lips.

Gavin tsked harshly and grabbed him a glass from the cupboard.

Jackson thumped up the aisle. “Hey, Dom.” He pushed past Gavin and held up the pink toaster. “Did ya know there’s a toaster on your bed?”

“I hadn’t noticed,” Dom said wryly. 

Shrugging, Jackson placed it on the counter and plugged it in.

“Wait!” Dom exclaimed, gripping the table edge. 

Jackson paused and frowned at him. “What?”

Michael’s rhythm changed to a drum roll. Nothing happened. The bus didn’t explode into smithereens. Sal’s ‘you’re toast’ message wasn’t the bomb after all.   
Jackson made an impatient gesture. 

Dom slouched back in his seat. “Nevermind.”

Michael switched to air drumming and said, “Ba dum tssh.”

“Someone take those away from him,” Dom said, rubbing his temples. 

“Alright, then.” Jackson rubbed his hands together. “Anyone fancy a bagel?”

Gavin huffed. “How can you even eat at a time like this?”

“Leave him alone, mate. We’re growing boys,” Adam said, raising a fist above his head. Jackson bumped it with his own fist and twirled the bagel bag open with a flourish.

“Certainly feels like I’m in kindergarten some days,” Gavin muttered. 

Adam waved him off and turned back to Dom. “Now spill the beans before I explode.” 

Tommy gently nudged Dom with an elbow. “We’ve got your back,” he said, pouring juice into the glass. 

Dom sucked in a deep breath and exhaled noisily. “If we don’t play the next show, Sal will kill my sisters.” The words tumbled out so quickly he almost choked. Afraid to see the reaction on his friend’s faces, he stared at a tea dribble drying on his cup. 

“I got it on tape,” Tommy added, and the click of the camcorder prompted Dom to look. The footage was shot through the window at a bad angle but it clearly showed Sal leaning in to whisper and Dom going stiff as a board.

The video rolled like a silent film and Dom relived the horror and powerlessness. 

Tommy stopped the playback. “I couldn’t get audio, but like I said, I’ve been shooting you long enough to know it had to be bad.” 

“So that’s what he’s got on you,” Adam said quietly.

Dom regarded his friends, feeling the ties of their relationship pull taut, about to snap at any second. His voice cracked with despair when he said, “Only you can’t hear him say it, so there’s no proof.” 

For a moment, no one said anything. 

The toaster popped. 

“It gets worse.” Gavin looked up from his phone. He reached over and flicked on the mini TV above Adam’s head. 

A live news broadcast lit up the screen, depicting a newscaster signing off in front of the Vogue Theatre on Granville street. Daylight did the faded red and white sign no favours and Yungblud’s name looked hungover in the midday light. 

The broadcast switched to the newsroom.

Dom gasped. 

Dressed in an impeccable designer suit, dark hair slicked back, Sal sat there, flexing gold jewelry in the artificial light. 

“Turn it up,” Dom said, struggling to hear over the noise of Jackson scraping butter over his bagel. 

“Early investigations have not yet determined the nature of the freak accident causing the deaths of almost one thousand concert goers at last night’s Yungblud show,” the newscaster said. “Dominic Harrison, known by his artist name as Yungblud, is currently unavailable for comment. Joining me in the studio today to make a statement on his behalf, is his manager, Sal Battere.” 

Sal smiled ruefully at the camera, turning the sympathy filter on thick. “We are deeply saddened by yesterdays’ tragic event. Gas leaks are rare yet so very dangerous.” 

The journalist shuffled through her papers, a frown marring her pretty face. “I have not yet received confirmation that it was a gas leak—” she held a finger to her ear, “—ah, wait. This just in, a gas leak is indeed a likely cause and is presently under investigation.” She flashed a plastic smile at Sal. “Can you tell us how Dominic Harrison is faring?”

“Dominic and the crew are shook up but fine. Most of the crew were backstage and furthest in proximity from the leak, allowing us to execute a timely evacuation.” His smile fell and if Dom didn’t know any better, he’d actually buy Sal’s grief-stricken appearance. “With exception of our merchandise manager, who we regrettably lost in this tragedy.”

“My condolences.”

Sal nodded and continued. “Dominic is currently taking a step back and is asking to respect his privacy as we mourn the loss of one of our own.”  
Dom’s knuckles went white around his cup. Looks like Sal was able to pull off his own performance. 

“As investigations continue, how does this bode for the rest of the tour?”

Folding his hands together, Sal leaned forward and looked into the camera. His gaze seemed to bore through the airwaves and into Dom’s heart. “Dominic is a resilient young man. I know him to be passionate and determined, and I’m certain he will take to the stage and continue the tour as planned. In the meantime, proceeds from the show will be donated to help cover memorial costs.”

Dom sputtered a slew of curses. 

“What a wanker,” Jackson said around a mouthful of bagel. 

Gavin lifted the remote and shut off the TV. “I can’t watch it anymore.” Who could blame him? As Gavin’s mentor, Sal showed him the ropes, and they’d worked closely together for a while now. Long enough to build up a rapport, making this the worst of bastardly betrayals. This clearly wasn’t sitting well with him or any of them, Dom noted as he regarded everyone in turn. They each had a knife in their backs, even if the knife was at Dom’s throat. 

“HQ wants an answer,” Gavin said, already back on his phone and typing out a message. “I’ll stall them.” 

Tommy tapped his camcorder. “We go to the cops.”

Dom shook his head. “Even if you edited that, it’s not audible, and you can’t read his lips when he leans in to me. All you have is my reaction. That footage isn’t incriminating enough.” 

“We can still fight this,” Tom argued. 

“How the fuck are you gonna fight him?” Adam argued. “You don’t even know what he is.”

“A psycho,” Michael offered. 

“He’s not a psycho, he’s a demon,” Dom said, amazed at how easily the words rolled off his tongue. He sloshed the dregs of his tea around the bottom of the cup. “Did I ever tell you about the time Sal took me to see the Hollywood sign?” He closed his eyes as he remembered. 

The sunset drive up into the hills had been scenic and easy paced, the low grumble of the Cadillac lulling Dom into a comfortable silence as it snaked its way up hills suffused in a soft orange pink glow. 

Sal rolled into a quiet neighbourhood and parked the black Cadillac in the middle of the intersection. He killed the ignition and pulled out a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket. 

Dom peered out the window. Rows and rows of cookie cutter homes surrounded them. Beneath them, L.A dominated the horizon. “Where are we?”

“A crossroads.”

He snorted, looking past his own reflection at the affluent neighbourhood. “Here I thought we were in suburban hell.”

Sal chuckled. “That too.” He lit a cigarette and rolled down his window.

“Got one of those for me?” Dom asked, rolling down his own window. Sal thumbed the pack open and held it out. Taking a cigarette, he said, “So what’s the deal? We out real housewife spotting?”

Sal tucked the pack away and took a drag off his smoke, the orange ember glowing brightly until he finally exhaled. “How badly do you want to be a rock star?”  
Dom tapped the butt of his unlit cigarette on the car’s window sill, liking how Sal said rock star and not pop star, which is what his former manager had pushed on him. “More than anything.” He flipped the smoke into his mouth and caught it between his lips. Sal reached over and held out a flame from a gold Zippo. Dom puffed the cigarette a couple of times then said, “I couldn’t take the pop star fast track bullshit. That life ain’t for me, do ya know what I mean?”

Sal murmured his agreement and played with the oversized rings on his hand, smoke curling from between his fingers. “Heard you fired your last manager.”

“For being a paint by numbers wanker. He wanted to mold me into—” he waved at the row of identical houses, “—this. We didn’t share the same vision.” 

“And what is your vision?”

Dom leaned back in his seat and released a plume of smoke, watching the distant city lights twinkle in the dusk. No one had ever really asked him what he wanted. Sure, people asked, but they didn’t really listen, didn’t really get it, didn’t want to get it. In this shithole egocentric world brimming with toxicity, people weren’t people anymore, instead reduced to numbers, followers and likes, a giant stepping stone to narcissism. 

“I want to be heard,” he said quietly.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

At Dom’s glare, Sal smiled and lifted his hands in surrender. “I’m kidding. I hear you. I hear you,” he repeated, and this time, his words carried a convincing weight that struck Dom’s core and resonated. He wasn’t sure how he felt about Sal, but his words felt genuine. 

“I spent eternity stuck in hell, working a dead-end job,” Sal said, considering his cigarette. The ash grew perilously long as the cherry burned deeper. He held it out the window and tapped the ash. “But then I broke free of the nine to five and now I’m doing what I want to do.” He brushed ash from his suit. “You might be too young to know the pain of a lifetime of servitude, but I know you’re smart enough to know the pain of being forced to do something you don’t want to do. Freedom is being able to do what you love.”

“Yeah, man.” There wasn’t much more to say to that, and so they smoked in silence. 

Sal idly blew smoke rings out his window as the last tinge of orange disappeared behind the hills, plunging the street into darkness.

“Shit, you’d think they could afford some lights,” Dom said, leaning forward to peer out at the empty streetlights lining the block. Long shadows ate up the pavement and silence yawned.

Sal flicked his cigarette butt out the window. It skittered across the pavement, the cherry exploding into a shower of tiny glowing embers that vanished as quickly as they had appeared. “The time has come for you to decide what you want, Dom,” Sal said. “Ever since I saw you playing on that soapbox in London—”  
“It was a beer crate,” Dom interjected, thinking back to his busker days. 

“Sure, whatever.” Sal waved. “I knew your voice was powerful, the call of a siren.” 

“Siren.” Dom tried the word out in his mouth and felt oddly flattered. “I sing, and they come running.”

“To their doom, and my pocketbook.”

Dom shot him a look.

Sal squirmed and adjusted his collar. “Bad joke, manager’s joke.” 

“Is that all that’s in it for you? Getting paid?”

Sal’s jaw tensed for a moment before he smiled. “No. More like getting people to pay.” He tapped his lip with a long finger as if searching for the right words, then cast him a sidelong glance. “To pay attention.”

“So you brought me to a legit crossroads to talk about a metaphorical crossroads?”

Sal nodded. “We are symbolic creatures, after all.” His face turned serious. “I think you deserve to be heard, Dom. I think the world needs to hear your voice and what you have to say. You can bring the world to its knees.”

Dom thought maybe Sal was taking the hyperbole a tad too far, but at least someone was finally listening.

“I was the youngest on my last manager’s roster but that doesn’t mean I had nothing of value to say.” 

“Well, with your consent, I would be delighted to help bring your voice to the world.” Sal turned to offer Dom his hand, silver rings glinting in the dim light. “To your voice.”

Dom shook his hand. “To my voice — ouch!” He exclaimed, drawing back his hand.

“Sal grimaced apologetically. “Sorry, it’s these damn rings, sometimes they bite—the price of fashion, right?” He grabbed Dom’s hand to inspect it.

“It’s nothing, just a nick.”

Sal dabbed the bead of blood on Dom’s finger. “There’s a first aid kit in the glove box.”

Dom flicked his cigarette out the window so he could pop the glove box. He rummaged around until he found a band-aid and caught Sal sucking his own finger.

“Gross, did you just lick off my blood?”

Sal grimaced. “I wasn’t about to wipe it on my suit.”

“Well, don’t get all sparkly on me now.” Dom ripped open a bandage and wrapped it around his finger.

“No sparkles.” Sal laughed. “But you know—” his eyes shone in the dim red light, “—you have young blood.”

“Young blood,” Dom said, his northern accent thickening as he tasted the words on his tongue. He tapped his bandaged finger against his chin. “If you take out the o’s, that could work.” 

“Yungblud.” 

Sal and Dom looked at each other.

“Yungblud,” they said together. 

Smoke filled Dom’s nostrils, and a low whistle broke him out of his reverie. Everyone was staring at him. Adam’s cigarette burned away unsmoked between his fingers. Gavin nodded to himself as if everything made sense now. Jackson wiped the crumbs from his beard onto the empty plate in his hand. Tommy tucked a golden curl behind his ear. Michael, deep in thought, ran the tip of his drumstick along the frayed edge of his bandage. The table vibrated lightly and Dom realized it came from his fidgeting leg. He forced himself into stillness. 

“So you made a pact with the devil?” Adam finally said. 

“No.” Dom shook his head. “I got duped into a deal with a demon.” 

“Wow,” Adam said, kneading his jaw. “Floored. Who would have thought that shit was real and what are the chances it found us?”

“I’m not surprised,” Dom said with a downcast smile. “Danger and chaos just seem to gravitate to me.” He fiddled with his empty teacup. 

Gavin massaged his temples. “No shit. You realize it’s not just a matter of some demon—I can’t believe I just said that—threatening us. We’re also two seconds away from the authorities breathing down our necks. It’s death or jail.”

The comment started a litany of arguments as everyone vocalized their thoughts and fears. A headache crept in as Dom watched his friends argue. Normally, he’d jump right into the fray, the mouthiest twat of ‘em all, but this time reckless abandon wasn’t the solution. His gaze slid to Michael, who remained silent, staring at his drumsticks like he was privy to a conversation only he could hear. 

The pounding behind Dom’s eyes grew until finally he snapped. “Enough.”

The group stilled. 

“I get it,” Dom raised his hands. “This is my mess, and I have to clean it up.”

“That’s not how I meant it,” Gavin huffed. 

Dom waved him down. “The only thing is…” his voice trailed off as he sought courage to finish his big ask. 

“Spit it out,” Adam said, but there was no harshness in his tone. 

“I can’t pull off a performance without you,” he replied, looking at each of them in turn. “All of you. But I understand the severity of the situation. If you want to walk, I won’t stop you.”

Jackson put his plate in the sink and crossed his arms. “Well, it’s not the zombie apocalypse I was hoping for, but I’ll take it.” 

“We’re with you,” Tommy said without hesitation, grabbing Dom’s hand and sliding it into the centre of the table. “All hands in.” 

Jackson sauntered over and added his hand to the pile. “I’ve got a nine iron with Sal’s name on it.” 

“I’m all for a carefully executed plan.” Gavin said as he side-eyed Jackson, but joined in. 

Michael, always the quiet one, twirled a stick in contemplation. Then he slapped the stick down in the palm of his other hand, smiled, and threw his hand into the mix. 

Adam, still looking gob-smacked, slowly placed his hand on top. The cigarette’s curling smoke crowned the symbol of solidarity. “So what are you going to do?”

The weight of their hands reassured Dom that they wouldn’t throw him to the wolves. “Sal wants a show.” He leaned over the table and plucked the cigarette from Adam’s fingers. “So I’m going to give him one,” he said, took a drag off the cigarette and extinguished it in the ashtray. 


	4. Can't cuff a riot

Good night, Seattle!”

The crowd’s closing applause was music to his ears.

Dom, Adam, and Michael stepped off the stage together, plastered in sweat and triumphant smiles. Every one of the past sixty-three minutes had stitched themselves into Dom’s body, a cord of nervous energy holding sinew and muscle and bones together. Now that he was backstage he came unravelled like someone had pulled a loose thread.

The trio collapsed into a chaotic dog-pile backstage.

“We did it,” Dom exclaimed. The show had gone off without a hitch, the only snag a wayward jest during soundcheck where his offhand comment of ‘bugger me sideways’ had instigated an embarrassing situation involving dropped pants. The in-house techs had a good crack at that, but otherwise it had been business as usual.

Dom rubbed an affectionate hand over Michael’s freshly shorn head. He’d shaved off the golden mop before the show, and looked like a deployed soldier, but it suited him.

“Bloody right we did!” Michael lifted his drumsticks in victory. “The stage was wobbling so much your beers fell off the amp!”

“Look at you, minding your mouth, your mother would be proud,” Adam said and planted a kiss straight on his lips. “Next stop, Portland! We gotta stop at Voodoo Donuts and get some of those epic treats again!”

He laughed, happy to see his friends in better spirits, even if Adam’s innocent comment triggered a pang of anxiety about the welfare of his family. Before the gig, they’d notified security to bar anyone matching Sal’s description, and so far Dom hadn’t seen hide or hair of him. But he’d played the show as demanded, and now he could only hope that Sal would pull through on his end of the bargain and leave his family alone.

Gavin approached them and threw him a towel. “Now get in the shower so we can meet those fans. Fifteen minutes.”

After Machine Gun, the last song in his encore, Dom had told the fans to meet him out back in twenty. That certainly was one way to empty a room, proving that a parade of screaming fangirls could be more dangerous than any mosh pit.

Once showered and clean, he threw on his favourite oversized black hoodie, and ran his hand over the fuzzy teddy bear with a severed head that dominated the front. Cuddly and dangerous, just like me, he thought. Dom loved hoodies more than anything, this one particularly. He should give it to one of his fans. Yeah, that’s what he’d do. Was he doing it out of love or a guilty conscience? Who gave a shit, as long as he spread some happiness in the world.

Pulling up the hood, he met up with Gavin and Tommy by the back door.

Tommy had his hands full with both his SLR camera and handheld camcorder. A sheepish look crossed his face as Dom neared. Eyeliner rimmed Tom’s ocean blue eyes, and he bit his lip as he awaited the reaction.

“Sick puppies!” Dom pinched his cheeks. “Told ya it would look good.”

A blush screamed across Tom’s cheeks despite his trying to act all nonchalant. “Ready?” He blew a giant pink bubble.

Dom arched his eyebrow. People chewed through music like gum—as soon as it loses its flavour they spit it out and forget about it—like one-hit wonders that come and go, bands obliterated from recollection, unable to even stick to the bottom of your shoe. Dom planned on sticking around a long time.

He grinned and popped the bubble with his index finger. “Let’s gum up the works.” They filed out into the alley, security moving in to flank them.

The scent of rain on asphalt greeted him, a respite from the sweat-drenched swamps of the pit, even though he often joked he couldn’t wait to smell them and associated the odour with a successful hard day’s work. A swarm of cheering fans eagerly waved tickets, posters, and various merch at him to sign. One fan had even removed their shoe and hobbled in place, brandishing their Converse sneaker in the air.

Dom’s connection with his fans was sacred and upholding that connection was paramount. Despite Gavin’s grumblings about personal safety, he made sure Dom could have these moments, making memories in a raw and authentic manner rather than overpriced meet and greets that other artists offered. Engaging with fans off stage was just as integral to Dom as on stage. Out here, there was no barricade.

A gust of wind brought a splattering of rainwater off the roof, but nothing could dampen their spirits. Wet but alive was a vast improvement over the previous night. Their rain-soaked faces reminded him of the last gig he’d attended with Adam and Michael, where they’d been queued up outside Brixton Academy, London’s leading concert venue, for hours in the rain. Of course, none of them had thought to bring a jacket, but once they got inside, nothing mattered but the music. They’d stared at the massive stage in awe, soaking up concert vibes, and Dom had said to them ‘if we can make it here, then we’ve made it.’

Determination fuelled Dom. He’d get them there, come hell or high water. Holding onto Tom’s shoulders, they conga lined through the packed crowd. No amount of rain would stop him.

He scanned for a high point and spotted the green dumpster against the brick wall. “Get me over there,” he cried at Gavin, and security cleared the way like a snowplow. Accepting a boost from Gavin, he clambered onto the dumpster. Tommy followed suit and slid behind him to record the assemblage. Gavin and the security moved to the side only to be quickly replaced by a rush of excited fans, phones at the ready.

Dom got to his feet, taking a moment to get his balance on the dumpster’s slick metal lid. The rain let up momentarily, but a chill wind raced between the buildings. The alley was stuffed, fans spilling over at the far end of the block. Graffiti scrawled across the brick walls all the way up to the shoddy apartments above the venue. Three stories up, a curtain shifted and an old man stared down at them.

“Tommy, get a shot of that geezer in the window,” he said, thrusting his chin in the man’s general direction. “I bet it’s not everyday they get an army in the alley.”

Tommy answered with a flurry of snapshots.

“Shit, I wasn’t expecting this many,” Dom said in disbelief. He threw back his hood, the evening breeze cool on the nape of his neck.

“You got this,” Tommy reassured him, finger hovering over the shutter button.

“I’m a rolling snowball,” he said, flashing a goofy grin. He broke out into a little dance, pantomiming driving a car. “Keep rollin, rollin, rollin. Keep rollin, rollin, rollin.”

“Alright Limp Bizkit,” Tommy said with a smirk. “Get to work.”

Dom raked a hand through his still damp hair and laughed, overwhelmed at the turnout. This was so punk rock.

“They say we’re in a sketchy part of town,” Dom addressed the group. “They say stay outta dark back alleys, but who’s gonna fuck with us?”

The crowd roared. His heart roared with them.

He motioned for a pen. Someone threw him a sharpie, but he missed it and it rolled behind the dumpster. “Shit.” Laughing off his klutziness, he signalled for another. He loved working the crowd. His energy was skyrocketing but his anxiety wasn’t far off, and his paranoia was creeping in, like the weekly group meeting for all the fookin disorders was about to start. He snatched another sharpie and waved it in the air, as if determined to dispel negative thoughts. He was allowed to have something good, however fleeting.

“Together, we can change the world and make tomorrow better.” He spread his arms wide, a dumpster dive messiah for his flock. Then he sang a capella, “There’s hope for the underrated youth.” They took over, singing the rest of the song, while he crouched and got to work signing autographs.

This part always made him feel like a ping-pong ball, torn between the warring cries for his attention as he signed everything that was thrust and thrown his way. It was a frenzied recipe of grab, sign, attempt eye contact, smile, pay a compliment, rinse and repeat.

The blip of a siren killed his vibe.

“Aw shit,” Tommy said. “Cops.”

Dom stopped what he was doing and stood. At the mouth of the alley, a patrol car blocked the exit. Its lights flashed red and blue, illuminating the alley like a dystopian disco.

“They are few but we are many,” Dom cried, secretly loving this. Police presence would make things more memorable for the fans and also prevent Sal from trying anything stupid.

“Hold that pose,” Tommy said, “I love the light reflecting off you.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Gavin hollered up at them and waded through the throng in the cops’ direction.

Dom knew it wouldn’t take long for the police to crash the party and busied himself with the fans, when a familiar face popped up. He stood up straight and held a finger to his rims.

The crowd hushed.

He locked eyes with a girl he recognized from the show. Some people he recognized because of their wildly dyed hair, some because of their piercings, and some because of their outfits, but this girl, he remembered because she’d puked over the barricade half a dozen times. When he pointed a finger at her, her face turned beet red. “This girl threw up like five times—”

The crowd burst into laughter.

“—but she fookin refused to leave.” He nodded at her and grinned, loving the blush that swept across her cheeks and the admiration in her eyes.

The crowd roared their approval. He held both fingers to his lips again to quiet them.

He paused for dramatic effect, then said, “That’s fucken rock ‘n’ roll man!” He lifted up devil horns with his fingers, his laughter joining the whistles and cheers that pierced the night sky, lit up by the flashing cop lights. This really was so punk rock.

The girl beamed at him, and he knew he’d made her night a little better, worth the price she’d paid for maintaining her spot at the barricade. He reached over to touch her hand, then resumed signing items.

Gavin pushed up beside her and yelled, “They’re giving you five minutes, then you gotta clear out.”

Five minutes. Fucks sakes. He glanced up. The curtains shifted in the now empty window. Fookin geezer had called the cops on them. They weren’t harming anyone, just being a bit loud in a back alley. Shouldn’t live above a live music venue if you want peace and quiet. His first instinct was to shout ‘move to the country, you wanker’ but given his new powers, he shot that down as a bad idea. Instead, he signed faster.

Gavin tugged at his pant leg. “Okay, time’s up.”

“What? No way that was five minutes already!” Dom said, handing an autographed shoe back to a fan. He grabbed a pink paper heart, something the fan club had taken to holding over their phone’s flashlights during his song Kill Somebody, and scribbled his autograph on it. He stretched out over the first line of people to return it, but the wind picked up and ripped from his grip.

Gavin jumped up on the dumpster, put his arms around Dom and spoke into his ear. “Seriously, Dom, we gotta go.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright. Coming,” Dom mumbled, hating to leave his fans when so many of them had stuck around for a chance to meet him and get something signed. But the weather was turning nasty, might as well call it a day. He pulled up his hood and readied himself to slide down the dumpster when a voice blared over a megaphone. “Clear the area, folks.”

“Uh, Dom, we might have a slight issue,” Gavin said, tugging at his sleeve.

Dom threw him a sidelong glance. “Yeah, I know, I’m moving.”

“No, it’s not that.” The frown between Gavin’s eyes deepened as he studied his phone.

“Clear out,” came the repeated command.

Dom’s attention bounced back to the police, who had exited the patrol car, and were waiting behind the open doors. One held a megaphone while the other leaned casually against the door frame, but Dom noted how his hand hovered near his pistol.

“Dom,” Gavin said insistently, but Dom ignored him, preoccupied with the rising tension in the air. He could still control this situation.

“Don’t panic,” Dom assured the crowd. “They won’t do anything if we just go home.”

But there were too many of them pressed into the back alley, and they couldn’t get moving fast enough. A few strands of fans snaked through the mass, quickly meeting the resistance of the die-hard fans who weren’t budging. Not for cops, not for anything. The hope of touching him was worth getting arrested.

“Go home, everyone,” Dom said louder, but the wind ate his words, and at best a handful of fans moved.

A gale howled through the alley, and with it, the crowd’s agitation grew. Something was off. Was he hearing whispers on the wind? His head snapped left and right as he scoured the crowd for Sal. Dom couldn’t see him, but he was there, somewhere, deceit riding in on a wind of discontent. Dom felt the control slipping from his grasp.

“Tommy, get the fuck out of here,” he snapped. “Take as many kids with you as you can.” Tommy nodded and jumped into the crowd.

“We really need to get out of here. Now,” Gavin said, voice panicked. He waved his phone in Dom’s face but he brushed it aside.

“I fookin heard you the first ten times. Just get to the bus.” Dom’s gaze flitted back to the cop with the megaphone. If he could get to it, his voice would be loud enough to be heard over the incoming storm.

He placed his hands on either side of his mouth and shouted, “I need that megaphone. Surf me over there?”

The fans directly beneath him nodded, their hands shooting up in the air ready to catch him. He jumped and landed on a bed of hands that carried him over to the police.

“Cease and desist,” came the amplified order.

“Get me to the megaphone,” Dom shouted in between gasps as he body surfed over the crowd, hands all over him, groping, lifting, pushing. He was catapulted into the air and dipped, before being lifted back up. It was like riding a writhing leviathan. Steadily, he neared the front of the alley.

“Stop right there,” the officer commanded, “or we will shoot.”

“We’ll protect you, Dom,” the fan who’d thrown up said, and he caught the familiar vacant sheen in her eyes.

“Just put me down,” Dom huffed in fear as a dozen fans turned in unison to face the cops. “They are few but we are many,” they yelled into the night. It was eerie how they all moved in sync without speaking, like a hive mind connected them.

Gently, the fans lowered him enough that he could slide down. As soon as his feet hit the asphalt, he ran towards the freaky group of kids.

“Wait!” he called. But they didn’t hear him as two armoured trucks rolled around the corner and screeched to a halt by the patrol car.

Dom skidded to a stop. Fooks sake. The cavalry. Armed SWAT officers poked out of the trucks, rifles at the ready like a pissed off porcupine. They sighted their scopes on him, lighting up his chest with red dots. Dressed in black riot gear, they spilled out of the vehicles and assembled behind body-length shields. Fans milled all around him. “Run,” he screamed. And they ran. They ran straight for the cops.

“Shit.” He chased them, hoping he’d reach that megaphone first.

The two beat cops popped off a couple of shots before they were swarmed by the kids and went down under a flurry of punches and kicks. His heart sank as the megaphone disappeared in the fray.

“Fuck, no! Stop!” Dom shouted, but between the howling wind and the cacophony, only a handful of kids complied.

Shots cracked and echoed off the alley walls. Screams pierced the air. Frozen by terror, he stood rooted to the spot, a bad album stuck on repeat. An explosion to his right sent a noxious fog his way. His eyes stung like mad and he choked, lungs on fire. Tear gas. He pulled his hoodie over his mouth and nose. All around him kids dashed about, shouting and screaming while the riot squad closed in, batons drumming against their shields. The kids who’d stopped were taken down first. Dom had removed their instinct to flee. “Run, run, run,” he yelled, turning in a tight circle.

Dom wiped away the tears and spotted the megaphone half-rolled under the patrol car. He scrambled after it.

Someone went down in front of him, but there was no blood. He rushed past, swerving and careening past rioting fans and skidded to his knees next to the car. As he reached beneath the wheel, a sharp pain bit into his shoulder. He cried out and clutched his shoulder. A rubber bullet bounced to the ground next to him.

“Cover him,” a fan yelled, and instantly people shifted to screen him.

Pain radiated from his shoulder and his hand went numb. Biting back the agony, he slid onto his belly and reached under the car, fingertips grazing the megaphone. “C’mon.”

He leaned in even further, his shoulder protesting loudly, and his fingers finally touched plastic. He coaxed the megaphone out and grabbed it the instant it came within grasp. Rolling onto his back, he brought the megaphone to his mouth and screamed, “Everyone, stop.”

For a moment, the alley quieted. Rough asphalt dug into Dom’s back as he squirmed on the ground, fighting to catch his breath. Fans stopped rioting and the soldiers stopped shooting. But his order came a second too late. The silence lasted long enough to hear the distinct clunk of metal hitting the ground, and a hiss as a small canister rolled over the pavement. Suddenly, a cloud of poisonous smoke surrounded him. Bloody hell.

“Go!” Dom scrambled to his feet. Coughing, he hid his nose in the crook of his elbow and stumbled forward blindly, tripping over a bloodied and bruised cop and falling to his knees. Relief flooded Dom when the man groaned, and a fresh onset of tears blurred his vision. Dom sucked in a deep breath, readying to tell everyone to go home, when an enormous whopping racket filled the night air.

A chopper surged over the top of the building, its spotlight roving until it found his face. He squinted against the bright light. Flash blinded, he clamped his eyes shut. Something hit his hand, kicking the megaphone loose. Dom didn’t know if it was a panicked fan or a cop, but it didn’t matter. It was over.

“Fook sakes!” he yelled in frustration and held up a hand to shield his eyes.

Dom blinked away the spots. He didn’t know where to focus his attention; the fans trampling each other as they tried to escape, the rioting kids who’d rushed the officers, the chopper that squatted above him, or the approaching masked soldiers armed to the teeth.

The chopper’s loudspeaker blared to life. “Dominic Harrison, you are under arrest. Put your hands in the air.”

“Stop fighting. Please, stop fighting,” Dom begged. Those within earshot stopped, looks of shock and confusion crossing their faces as they found themselves face to face with riot police. He moved his good arm above his head, but his shoulder refused to let him raise the other hand. Booted feet approached and pushed him onto his stomach. He bit back a scream as they yanked his hands behind his back. Cold metal cuffs slid over his wrists and snapped shut.

His knees were scraped raw, his cheeks were wet, his eyes and lungs burned from the tear gas, and his shoulder throbbed relentlessly. Two officers hoisted him to his feet. A third stepped in front of him and a gloved hand grabbed his chin. Dom squeezed his eyes shut. The hand shoved his head sideways. “Open your eyes,” a female voice commanded.

Dom obeyed, vision blurred. He gasped and sputtered as water was poured over his face, the hand holding him steady as the poison was flushed from his eyes. The sting receded somewhat and Dom blinked. The grip on his chin shifted, forcing his gaze.

The armoured officer handed the empty water bottle to her colleague and reached into her vest’s pocket. “Congratulations, Mr. Harrison,” she said, voice distorted from the gas mask. She flashed a poster with his likeness on it. “You’ve made Interpol’s most wanted list.” Folding the paper twice, she tucked it back in her pocket and regarded him from underneath her anti-riot helmet, the visor doing nothing to hide her contempt. He wanted to tell her it wasn’t his fault, that he’d tried to help, that if only he’d gotten to the megaphone sooner. Instead he coughed, trying to ease the fire in his lungs.

She waved dismissively. “Take him away.”

The wind whistled through the alleyway, laughing at him. As they dragged him away, Dom looked up and saw a shadowy figure in the third-story window. The figure stood there a moment and then saluted. The curtains closed, and he was dumped unceremoniously in the back of a patrol car.


	5. The fuzz and the wool

“Any chance we can loosen the cuffs a bit?” Dom asked, wriggling around in the hard molded plastic seat of the cop car. He was uncomfortable as fuck and there was zero leg room. His knees pressed up against the barrier and his right hand, the one he’d broken a little over a month ago during his birthday bash, was starting to go numb. His shoulder ached, and he felt like the Juggernaut had tackled him. Why didn’t they throw him in the back of the truck? Oh right, because someone always wanted to use him.

One of the two officers first on the scene had emerged from the riot relatively unscathed and had insisted on being an arresting officer. He sat behind the wheel, raving about how much credit he’d get for this. His partner, the dude with the megaphone, had been transported to the hospital with no word on his medical state, just like no one would tell Dom how many fans had been injured. Dom would never willingly abandon his fans. He’d be at the hospital now, giving them all cuddles. He’d never leave them to fend for themselves just for bragging rights and bougie donuts. He shook his head in disgust. His only saving grace was that the true arresting officer, the SWAT lady, accompanied them, most likely to make sure this didn’t get cocked up. They still could have transported him in the damn truck.

Dom leaned forward and yelled through the metal mesh divider. “Hello?” The driver glanced up in the rear-view and glared at him beneath a puffy black eye. The SWAT team commander rode shotgun, her ebony skin dewy in the passing streetlights. She’d removed her helmet, revealing tightly woven braids close to the scalp, giving her a badass warrior vibe. She didn’t answer either, but her index finger thrummed a beat on the helmet in her lap. Dom sat back and kicked the divider with his creepers, wincing at the pain that shot through his ankle. Should’ve worn my boots, he thought to himself and spent the rest of the ride looking glumly out the window.

Once at the precinct, he stumbled out of the backseat on numb legs, pins and needles licking up his calves like wildfire. Ditcher and Xena, as he had dubbed them in his mind, hauled him gruffly up the steps to the main doors. “Take it easy, man,” Dom muttered beneath his breath, trying to keep from tripping.

“Aw, I thought you people liked it rough,” Ditcher sneered as he tugged at the padlock chain around Dom’s neck, but he eased up on his injured shoulder. Xena’s dark eyes hardened and she threw Ditcher a dirty look.

“You people? The fooks that supposed to mean?” Dom hated being dumped in a box with a label. Boxes were for cereal and labels were for clothing. He had half a mind to tear into him, but as they entered the waiting room, all of Dom’s senses were assaulted at once.

The inside of the precinct had to be a circle of hell—a cacophony of ringing telephones, intercom announcements, calls and shouts, rustling papers, chatting officers, argumentative detainees, all warring for attention over the squawk of police radios, doors buzzing open and closed, and the snoring drunk stinking up the room. Not even the smell of burning coffee from the coffee station tucked in the corner managed to drown out the stench. Dom wrinkled his nose, wishing he could cover it. He breathed through his mouth as Ditcher and Xena steered him to the processing area, clearly marked by a huge sign hanging above the counter.

At first, his passing barely garnered any glances, and Dom honestly didn’t know whether he should feel insulted or relieved. But then Ditcher paraded him past a cluster of blue, jerking him sideways so abruptly his creeper soles squeaked on the tile floor. The officers hushed and stared at him.

“Got a RED NOTICE for ya, Sheila. DOMINIC HARRISON,” Ditcher declared loudly, grinning like an idiot. He pushed Dom towards the counter and then waltzed off to be received with back slaps and fist bumps by his comrades.

“Idiot,” Xena hissed under her breath, straightening as the lady behind the counter approached them. Sheila, vibing Aretha Franklin in a uniform, assessed him with a raised eyebrow. She presented as a no-nonsense kind of woman, but the laugh lines around her eyes and mouth suggested she had a soft core beneath her hardened exterior.

“You s’posed to be sumthin’ special?” Sheila said, looking unimpressed.

Xena transferred his hands to the front and recuffed him. The cuffs weren’t any looser than before, but at least his shoulder stopped bitching for a sec.

“Got a whole bunch of kids that look just like you,” Sheila said, pointing a thumb in the direction of the holding cells.

Dom looked over and was greeted with shouts of recognition. About a dozen fans were crammed in a cell at the far end of the room. They reached through the bars at him, waved at him, and some broke into tears. They looked tired and scared and it was for all the wrong reasons. Dom held back his own tears and stepped towards them, only to be pulled back by Xena. “Eyes front,” she snapped, but her tone was more weary than angry.

“Hang in there, I’m coming for ya,” he promised, heart aching. His eyes widened. “No, wait, I mean hold on!” Hold on to what? He smacked this forehead, racking his brain for the right words. “Be brave.”

Sheila regarded him with arched eyebrows and an amused expression. “Decisive, I see,” she said as she typed something into the computer. “Well then honey, do I put ya with the boys or the girls?”

“I’m good either way,” Dom said coyly and batted his eyelashes. She waved him down with a giggle.

Xena said, “Put him in—”

“Room 105,” Ditcher interjected, breaking away from his group long enough to slap the counter next to Dom and point at Sheila. “The prick gets room 105.” This earned him dirty looks from both Xena and Sheila. He returned the glare and threw up his hands. “This is the Kool-Aid kid that killed all those kids in Van.”

Sheila looked at him again and jerked her thumb in his direction. “Him?”

“Kool-Aid kid?” Dom echoed.

Ditcher smirked. “Yeah, we figure you’re some kooky cult leader that convinced everyone at the show to drink the Kool-aid.” Dom threw him an incredulous look. “You know, like the Peoples Temple cult back in the day. Fuck, do you Gen Zees even know anything?” Waving a hand in disgust, Ditcher returned to his group.

Dom silently counted to ten, his knuckles turning white from gripping the counter’s edge.

“Ignore him,” Xena said, her voice losing some of her previous gruffness. “Just concentrate on getting through this. He’s all yours, Sheila. I’ll prep Room 105.”

“Alright, honey, let’s get you booked,” Sheila said. “Name?”

“Dominic Harrison,” Dom replied politely, grateful she was treating him like a human being, innocent until proven guilty. She typed in his name and whistled low as she scanned the screen.

“Public intoxication?” She murmured. “Who you be getting all drunk and disorderly with?” She scrolled the mouse, then eyed him. “Colson Baker?”

“Oh yeah, my mate Machine Gun Kelly,” Dom said, thinking of his tall, blond, tattooed rapper friend. If Kells were here right now, he’d be smoking a huge blunt and telling him to calm down because everything was going to be okay, even if his presence normally guaranteed things were gonna get out of hand. Colson was a rowdy, who got Dom so worked up and dancing on tables at his birthday that Dom broke his own hand. “That was a different day, though. A wee drink while celebrating my birthday, do you know what I mean? Even broke me hand,” he added sheepishly.

“You have any tattoos like him?”

“Got these two hearts on my fingers.” He showed her the black hearts on his middle fingers. She arched her eyebrow at the gesture, and he lowered his hands. “The right is broken, to remind me when I was trying to find myself, and the left is whole, because... well, I found myself.”

Sheila typed into the computer. “Any others?”

“Um, yeah,” he said, heat creeping across his cheeks. “I’ve got an elephant on my ass.” Usually, he showed that tattoo off every chance he got, but Sheila had caught him off guard.

Without blinking, she typed in the answer.

“Bet Colson doesn’t have that,” she said finally. “I like his song Going Thru Shit, pretty much my daily theme song in this place.”

He flashed his best smile. “We did a song together.”

“I’m sure you did,” she said. “Now, hold out your hand.” He complied, shifting his hands within the cuffs, and she ran a wet wipe over his fingertips. “I’m going to take your prints now. Fingers first, then thumb.” Their eyes met, and she gave his hand a light squeeze. “Just relax and let me do the work.”

One by one, she pressed his fingers into the ink pad and rolled them onto the card. The process was quiet, barely heard over the ruckus at the opposite end of the station, but anxiety lent him this extraordinary tunnel vision where the world around him melted away. A dab into the ink, the featherlight whisper as his palm brushed the countertop, skin forced against paper, echoing with finality, a permanence Dom wasn’t prepared for. He fixated on the black smudges that were undeniably him.

Fingerprints are unique, and Dom had always believed people were most powerful when they were uniquely themselves, when they embraced all aspects of themselves, the good and the bad. But it took unbelievable strength to embody that mentality when society pressured us to only portray ourselves at our best. Dom was no stranger to putting himself out there, but that didn’t mean it always came easy. As he watched his identity stamped out in black and white, he realized that while music provided the soundtrack to life, this was one record he didn’t want to own.

“What’s going to happen to me?”

Her expression was despondent as she handed him another wet wipe. “Not sure, Dominic.” She pulled out a plastic sign from under the counter and began sliding letters onto the board, spelling out his name. “Yungblud is shorter, you know,” he offered, wiping the stubborn residue from his fingers.

“Young blood?”

“Yeah, but one word and take out the o’s. Double the U, double the flavour.”

This earned him a laugh. She pressed the board into his cuffed hands, then moved to the keyboard and typed. “Alias Yungblud.” She looked up at him. “Alright, then, Yungblud, let’s take a pic of that pretty mug, shall we?”

“Where do ya want me?”

She rolled her eyes. “On the taped X, rock star.”

Dom moved to the wall with the height measurement bar and stood over the X taped to the floor in front of the camera. Straightening, he squared his shoulders and held the sign to his chest. A pang went through him. He missed Tommy. Normally, he’d pose dynamically, moving fluidly for the camera, working it. But now he stood still, trying to hide the tremor in his limbs and hoping he didn’t come across as terrified as he felt.

“3, 2, 1,” she counted down, and Dom couldn’t help but lift his upper lip as she clicked the pic. She studied the photo and frowned. “We’re going to have to redo it now.”

“Show me,” he said, and she twisted the camera off the tripod. Her face registered surprise as she walked over to show him the digital display, like she couldn’t believe she was entertaining his whim.

“That’s pretty epic. Not even Sid pulled that off.” Dom flashed her a disarming smile. “I think we should keep this one.”

Sheila gave him a sidelong glance. “You know what, fudge it. Bout time we had something interesting up in here.” She gave him a look like she wanted to say something, then decided against it. “Officer Hastings, Mr. Harrison is ready for you,” she called, taking the board from his hands. Her eyes met his again. “Take care of yourself, Yungblud.”

Ditcher reappeared to take him to Room 105. He herded Dom inside a nondescript room and closed the door behind them. The room was boring and barren. A blank steel table with a cuff bar bolted to it, three boring chairs, and steel rings affixed to the ground where he could be shackled down. A two-way mirror dominated the back wall. The kind of room he could go bonkers in. Xena was lounging in the corner, foot propped against the wall and a massive handgun bulging out of her thigh holster.

Dom stared at her. “You had to prep this?”

Xena shrugged and pushed off the wall to join them. “Sit down.”

“I’m innocent,” Dom said, easing himself into the single chair devoid of arms. He awkwardly leaned forward and tried to find a comfortable position.

Ditcher reached over the table and used a second pair of cuffs to attach his hands to the cuff bar. “If I had a dollar.” How Dom wished Tommy would do his silly Red Bull rinse now, he could use a drop of go juice. “Alright, have a good night,” Ditcher said, face smug and voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Wait, what?” Dom tugged at the cuffs, chains rattling against steel. Ditcher and Xena paused to look at him. “You can’t just leave me here!” All alone. But he didn’t dare admit how much being alone scared him.

Xena moved to the door. “Settle in, Mr. Harrison. We’ll be with you shortly.”

Ditcher snorted, and the two of them left. The door swung shut with an ominous clang.

The room descended into silence, save for the rasp of fabric from Dom’s jiggling legs.

They were seriously going to leave him in here to sweat it out. Fine by me. Dom picked at the polish on his nails. His ADHD gifted him the magic ability of outlasting a crackhead when it came to staying awake. Minutes melted into hours, but eventually the adrenaline wore off, leaving him cold and exhausted. Awake he might be, but alone with his thoughts was a slippery slope.

All his life he’d felt like he didn’t quite connect. In London, he studied theatre, hoping to find understanding and acceptance. Instead, he’d found more of the same bullshit he’d endured in Doncaster. Faceless uncaring sheep too busy and self-absorbed to recognize him. They were great at telling him what to do, though.

Dom was lost.

In protest, he’d locked himself in his flat for thirty days straight, and in this period called ‘The Month’ he was forced to confront himself. He waded through the darkness, navigating loneliness, picking up the glowing nuggets of who he was and what he stood for, and who he wanted to be. He created Yungblud. Pink socks, stripes, and spikes were just aesthetics, the cover of a book. But once the book cracked open, it became a platform, and a community arose from pages drafted in desolation. If he couldn’t find validation with his peers, he’d built his own syndicate.

Turned out he wasn’t the only one suffering alienation and combating confusion. They came, defying suppression and bringing solace that he was not alone in the way he felt. And so Yungblud grew.

Only in moments like now, locked up against one’s will, it felt as if the loneliness never truly left, and it became tempting to open the door and let the demons in. Every time his eyes drifted shut involuntarily, he saw the bodies of those taken from him. Self doubt plagued him relentlessly. He replayed the nights since meeting Sal over and over in his mind. Every scenario ended the same, and his despair grew.

Dom had no idea how long he’d been sitting there when the door finally opened, jolting him from a light doze.

The aroma of crappy coffee preceded Ditcher, who waltzed in carrying two paper cups and pretending to look right as rain. Xena followed and plopped a manila file on the table before sitting down. Both wore different clothing, but judging by their red-rimmed eyes, they’d had a short night too. Ditcher slid a coffee in Xena’s direction, and leered at Dom. “Sorry, bud, nothing for you.” He sipped at his coffee and winced.

Go ahead and take another sip, you wanker, and burn your tongue off. He waited, but Ditcher didn’t touch his coffee. Dom was simultaneously relieved and annoyed. Well, at least his thoughts were safe. He licked his parched lips. “I’m more of a tea guy anyways.”

Xena pulled out her phone, placed it between them, and tapped the screen a couple of times. “Officer Leighway interviewing Dominic Harrison in the presence of Officer Hastings.” She opened the folder, unfolded the top piece of paper, and slid the wanted poster across the table. Interpol: international fugitive, read the headline. “Mr. Harrison, we are going to ask you a few questions.”

Dom eyed the photo and sniggered. Had they seriously used one of his Instagram photos? At least now they had a perfectly good mug shot. He couldn’t deny the thrill that went through him at seeing his face on a wanted poster. He felt badass. Dangerous. He nonchalantly rubbed the greasy fingerprint ink off his fingers and smiled, realizing he probably looked a little crazy right now.

“I’m so glad you find the deaths of a thousand people amusing, Mr. Harrison,” Leighway said dryly, and started sliding more photos towards him.

Dom swallowed hard and looked away. “You’ve got it all wrong.”

She began rattling off a list of charges, her voice melding into a steady drone, while Ditcher looked like a Doberman standing by for the ‘sic em’ command.

Dom tugged at his bonds, irritating the angry red welts on his wrists where the metal cuffs dug into his skin. The pain a reminder he was still alive. His thoughts strayed to his Dad’s guitar shop on Denmark street, a redevelopment of Tin Pan Alley in the Soho district. London’s erstwhile musical mecca had turned into a strip of guitar shops, home to his old stomping grounds where he’d spent most of his free time growing up. He’d be sat upstairs, crammed into the tiny attic storeroom stuffed with countless guitar cases and dusty boxes full of sheet music. His task was to organize the chaos and hunt down the matching case whenever a customer bought a guitar, but more often than not, he’d wile away, poring over guitar tabs, memorizing riffs, even sneaking out an acoustic Gibson Hummingbird to quietly strum the chords. He began writing his own music up there, tucked away and dreaming of headlining Redding festival. He’d press his fingers into the fretboard, guitar strings digging into the fleshy pads of his fingertips until they bled. The pain a reminder he was still alive.

“Mr. Harrison,” Officer Leighway snapped, bringing him back. “Pay attention and answer the question.”

He hadn’t even heard her question. “I’m sorry,” Dom replied, “I have an inability to hear, a rare disease that happens in the absence of my lawyer.”

Ditcher cracked his knuckles. “Let me have a turn with him.”

Leighway looked as pleased about that idea as Dom felt.

“Where did you go just now?” She asked, her voice soft, as if she actually cared.

Dom lowered his eyes and said nothing.

Sighing, Leighway continued the interrogation, and endless questions circled like a broken record. Dom propped his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands. His exhaustion bristled with hostility. This wasn’t fair, and none of it was his fault, although it clearly looked that way. Minutes ticked by, making Dom feel like he was stuck in the recording studio and never being able to get the right take.

“Enough.” He slammed his palms down and blew the hair out of his eyes with a sharp exhale. “You want me to talk,” he said, “You let the kids go. Every single fan. Charges dropped. They walk and I talk.”

Neither one of them answered him.

Bollocks. Dom jumped to his feet, the chains pulling taut, and kicked his chair away. He twisted around to face the mirror. His face was grimy, streaked with sweat and dirt and eyeliner, and his eyes were bloodshot.

“Let those kids go,” he croaked, throat parched. “All of them. Now.”

A long drawn out moment of silence passed, almost long enough to make him regret kicking his seat out of reach. Then the phone vibrated. Dom smiled. It rang and rang, the three of them staring at it until Leighway softly swore and picked it up. Dom forced himself to stand as upright as possible, ignoring the pain in his wrists, and shifted his weight from foot to foot, holding out and hoping, while Leighway held the phone to her ear, eyes trained on him unflinchingly.

She hung up the phone. “Fine. We’ll release your fans, and you spill the beans.”

Ditcher looked like he was about to explode.

“Well, go on then,” Officer Leighway snapped at Hastings.

“Me?”

She threw him a cool look.

“This is bullshit,” Ditcher griped, standing up so abruptly his chair fell over. He stomped out of the room.

As soon as the door slammed shut, Leighway whirled to him. “Okay, Dominic, this is your chance,” she blurted. “If you’ve got something to tell me, now’s the time.”

Fighting a wave of exhaustion, he swayed on his feet and considered her. “What makes you think I have anything to say?”

“Gimme more credit than that.” She rolled her eyes. “I see straight through that tough guy act. You’re scared.”

If you were in bed with a sadistic, manipulative demon, you’d be shitting bricks too. Dom eyed the phone between them.

She followed his gaze, then lifted the phone to prove the recording was stopped. “Off the record.”

“Do you have hope for the underrated youth?” he asked her.

A moment passed between them, but sometimes that’s all it took to create a connection. That point in time when you hesitantly strum the chords to a new song, and know it’s gonna be an absolute banger, that instant when you look into someone’s eyes and feel you can trust them. But trust could be betrayed just like chart toppers could become one hit-wonders.

He crouched over and, placing his forearms against cool steel, leaned in conspiratorially. Leighway did the same, her dark eyes meeting his. “I’m going to tell you something.” Dom’s voice dropped to a whisper. “And I’m leaving it to you to do the right thing.”

Two minutes later, the door barged open. Leighway and Dom broke apart. “Happy now?” Ditcher loomed in the doorway, propping it open with his toe. He looked right pissed. Dom watched as all of his fans were led out. His heart swelled at the relief on their faces.

“We’ll wait for you outside,” one of the fans promised.

“No,” Dom called after them. “You kids go home and get some rest.”

Ditcher kicked the door shut and approached them, hands on his hips. “Okay, we came through. Now your turn.”

“How do I know you aren’t playing a trick on me?” Dom said, scrambling to buy time. He refused to tell Ditcher shit. Partially because he was a stubborn brat, partially because he didn’t know how to explain it all without getting sent to the loony bin, and partially because he was afraid his anger would get the best of him, and he’d say something that would kill them all.

“You have my word,” Leighway said, and it sounded genuine. He desperately wanted to believe her.

What could he say? What could he say. “I...I...” he stammered.

The door burst open and a familiar voice said, “Release him.”

Dom looked up through bleary eyes. His jaw dropped. He could have sworn he heard Sal’s voice, and while the man that stood before him had the same height, he had a completely different face. A stranger’s face that pinned him with a stern gaze.

“You don’t have to say anything more, kid,” he said, slamming his briefcase onto the pile of papers, and Dom knew it was Sal. Maybe he had some sort of illusion power. If Dom’s voice could make people do funny things, then maybe Sal could cast an illusion over himself. Who knows how he did shit anyway, he was a manager.

Hastings and Leighway began to protest, obviously upset at having their good cop, bad cop routine interrupted. They grudgingly accepted the papers Sal-not-Sal thrust at them, and their looks fell from annoyance to defeat as they read the orders. Sal stood there, tugging at his collar in discomfort.

“Extradition papers?”

Sal the investigator nodded. “Canada wants him.”

“We just let his whole cult go,” Ditcher complained. “My partner is in the hospital with injuries.”

“None of which are life threatening,” Sal snapped. “This man—” he pointed a finger at Dom “—killed over a thousand innocent people. Your partner will be fine. Harrison is coming with me.”

“This is bull,” Ditcher snapped, deliberately brushing Sal’s shoulder as he stalked out. Sal arched his eyebrows and a wicked smile danced upon his lips, and for a split second, Dom was on Sal’s side.

“Oh, c’mon now. Be fookin happy,” Dom called after him. Then he looked at Leighway. “I’m not your problem anymore.”

She gave him an indiscernible look but left without argument.

Sal picked up the chairs one after the other. He slid one behind Dom and sat down across from him. “Let’s have a little chat, Dom.”

Dom was too tired to argue. He slumped into his chair, every bone in his body aching.

“A few things are going to happen if you ever want to get out of this integration room, or at least what passes for an interrogation room here.” Sal gave him a once over. “Hell, even when you look like a truck rolled you over, you’re still a looker. Prison boys would be all over you. You’d get a nice little numbered cell, on a numbered block and a numbered uniform and a numbered cellmate who’d pull a number on you every night.” Sal inspected his manicure with a smirk. “I nailed that one, didn’t I?”

“Are you finished?” Dom yawned.

“Are you?” Sal clasped his hand together and leaned over to leer at him. “Have you found a way to prove your innocence? Like it or not, I’m the only one that can get you out of here, and that means, as you humans so quaintly put it, you owe me.”

All you gotta do is die a little, die a little, die a little to survive. Dom nodded grimly and rose. “Yeah, whatever, man.”

Sal smiled and snapped his fingers. At the gesture, the cuffs around Dom’s wrists shattered as if they were nothing but dried clay, and clattered to the table. Sal stood and righted his suit. “Great, let’s go, this face is itching like crazy.”

Dom squinted against the bright morning sun, wishing he had his sunglasses. He breathed deep, the fresh autumn air kick-starting a second wind. At least he was free. Just not out of the fire yet. Pulling up his hood, he stalked behind Sal, throwing daggers at his back with his eyes.

“Now, now,” Sal said, without breaking stride as they crossed the parking lot to his parked sedan. “Don’t be like that.”

“Don’t be like what?” Dom said, thrusting his hands in his hoodie pockets.

“An actual dagger in my back might do you more good than sulking. I can literally feel you moping.” Sal fished the car keys from his pocket and gave them a little jangle. Rather than unlock the door, he turned around and faced Dom.

Dom scowled at him from underneath his hood.

Sal sighed. “I don’t understand why you are pouting. Haven’t I given you everything you wanted? Don’t you now have a voice?”

Dom barked a laugh and shook his head. “Not like this,” Dom said. “I never wanted people to die.”

Sal shrugged and reached into his breast pocket. He pulled out Dom’s white-framed sunglasses and tossed them at him. “You have needs, I have needs, we meet in the middle.”

Dom caught them, hating that Sal thought of every little detail. Leave it to a demon to be diplomatic. Meeting in the middle over a field of corpses was not his idea of compromise. “Eat a bag of dicks,” he said, donning his sunglasses.

Sal grinned. “If only such a thing existed. Try again.” He leaned against the car and crossed his arms.

“Stab yourself with those car keys,” Dom demanded and watched as Sal slowly raised the keys to his throat. He mimed slitting his throat then winked at Dom. “That’s really not how it works, kid. I gave you part of my power, you can’t use my own power against me. I am the king, you are the pawn. I say two steps forward, and you move. You don’t get a say in this game.” He turned and unlocked the car door, motioning for him to get in. “Also, I feel I should mention that it’s pathetic you need me to come rescue you. You realize you could have walked out of there on your own with just a word, right?”

Dom’s hands curled into fists. He wanted to scream. There were many things he wanted to say, none of which would do him any good right now. Sometimes it was better to stay quiet. He could have commanded them to let him go. And they would have. But at what cost? Every time Dom used his powers, something went wrong. Sure, Sal had a heavy hand in the sabotage, but Dom was still leery of using his voice to control others. He believed in free will. He didn’t want anyone to get hurt. Just as he was thinking this, he caught Sal staring at him.

Dom climbed into the car. He didn’t hate. Sure, he was angry. The injustices of getting bullied for not fitting in. But that didn’t mean he wanted the world to drown in red. “Hate’s gonna die,” he said, putting his seatbelt on.

“Not today,” Sal said, sliding into the driver’s seat. Pulling down his collar with one hand, he peeled off the face mask and threw it in the back seat. It wasn’t a rubber Halloween guise. Dom swallowed the bile that rose in his throat and looked out the window. We all wore masks, he reminded himself. It was time to wear his and face the music.

“Besides,” Sal said, “look what I got for you.” He reached into his briefcase and pulled out his mugshot. “Thought you’d like a souvenir.” Sal pressed the photo into his hands and clapped him on the shoulder. “This shit’s gonna go viral, as you kids say.”


	6. Middle Eight

Dom felt like a bust up vintage tube television. No remote, just giant knobs to turn the channels and some jackass bending the wire antennas every which way to get a signal through the static. Shit had hit the fan and the stress of the situation made his world surreal, like he was watching this happen to someone else through the static on the screen.

Static. Snow.

True to form, news of his arrest had gone viral. Which might have been fine if he’d been in control of the content and the story. But Sal had confiscated his phone and isolated him from the crew, leaving him locked up like some animal while Sal sent tweets to the entire world. Dom slipped into a downward spiral. Each minute in isolation ticked away, stripping years off his life, drowning him in obsessive thoughts that circled like a tornado in his chest. To make matters worse, Sal would pop in from time to time to report on the growing response like a sadistic in-person notification.

“Slapped your mugshot on Instagram with the tagline: Interpol’s youngest most wanted,” he’d said with a manic gleam in his eye. “Twenty-nine thousand likes in under two hours. You should have seen it! The backlash. The public outcry. The outrage.” He kissed the tips of his fingers like a chef. “Like you kids say, the comments were lit.” The words were pure euphoria on his tongue. For Dom, they were nails in a coffin.

Static. Snow.

How Sal had managed to continue the tour was beyond him. Dom was supposed to be extradited to Canada to atone for the mass murder. But somehow, the States, thirsty for sensationalized news, had agreed to delay extradition until after this concert. One last show for the masses.

As long as they televised it.

The balcony at The Fonda had been requisitioned for the television cameras. Within half a day, newscasters from all over the world had flown into Los Angeles and were setting up. Dom had always jokingly called L.A. hell, often pinning his location as ‘Hell’ in social media posts, and now it truly was.

Meanwhile, Sal lapped that shit up like raspberry flavoured amphetamines. This was exactly what he wanted. The whole world watching, the whole world hanging onto every word Dom had to say. Sal had even written out a script for Dom, on thick cream coloured parchment paper, meant to be announced before the last song. Dom was surprised it wasn’t tattooed on the freshly flayed skin of some poor sod. “Stick to the script,” Sal had said.

Dom eyed the piece of paper next to his makeup case. Folded in half, non-descript and unassuming. But the words contained within... killer, and not in a good way. He had until the second interlude to figure this shit out, because if he said those words... Dom’s hands curled into fists. He couldn’t say those words.

Static. Snow.

Early that morning, Sal had rattled him out of his hotel room bed and dragged him to the venue for sound check. The two of them stood on stage, Dom sulking while Sal waved his hands at the empty music hall. His movements were jerky with excitement and his tone giddy. “Imagine the packed house, cameras everywhere. They’re gonna televise it, kid. Everyone will hear you now. Just like we’ve always wanted.” Sal clapped him on the shoulder, and Dom cringed under his touch. “Tonight, you speak to the whole world.”

Dom thought about cutting out his own tongue.

Static. Snow.

Dom felt like he was locked up in the isolation booth at a recording studio. He’d completed the vocals sound check alone. He’d sat in the greenroom, alone, applying product to his hair so it would stand wildly on end. Drank a beer, alone. Sat in front of the mirror alone, afraid to look at his own reflection. The empty bottle abandoned on the vanity looked as lonely as he felt. He’d begged to visit a stylist to change his hair colour, desperate for human contact, but Sal had refused. Instead, he got a brown paper bag with a drugstore bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a package of cherry Koolaid. Dom twirled the strands of dirty pink hair in with the black, his fingers coarse and patchy from the bleach, tugging just hard enough to feel the pain. Dark crescents rimmed his bloodshot eyes, but rather than hide his exhaustion with concealer, he smudged a thick line of kohl over them. He missed his mates, and he was lonely as fuck, but he hadn’t given up hope.

Static. Snow.

None of his crew was in sight as Sal herded him past the vacant backstage. Adam and Michael were presumably already on stage, judging by the cheers. Sal gave him a hungry once over that made Dom feel greasy. “Makeup’s looking good tonight.”

Resisting a shudder, he replied, “Wanna go out looking good.”

If Sal caught the innuendo, he made no comment. Probably too busy stroking his hard-on for the grand finale.

Static. Snow.

Television crews and cameras crowded the balcony. The music hall teemed, packed to overcapacity. A local news channel had set up a big screen outside the venue for those who hadn’t made it in for the show, and they had cordoned the entire block off and closed the streets to traffic. Tommy did his usual ‘run along the lineup around the block’ time-lapse video, and Sal dropped in to show it to him while Dom was putting on his makeup. He considered stabbing his eyeliner pencil into Sal’s eye.

Static. Snow.

Dom rushed backstage. He’d gotten through the first part of the show and made it to the first of two interludes. He had less than a minute to change and come back out to play _Kill Somebody_ in the middle of the crowd with his acoustic guitar.

Gavin and Jackson were waiting for him, ready to rock-and-roll in pink ski masks and matching vests.

“Thirty seconds.” Gavin held a vest open and Dom ducked underneath. Gavin slapped the straps shut while Jackson pulled a pink mask over Dom’s face and gave his cheeks a squeeze. Dom wanted to lean into Jackson’s hand, to borrow strength and comfort from his touch, but there was no time. Now dressed identically, the trio headed for the side stage. Sal handed him his acoustic guitar and Dom followed Gavin and Jackson into the unsuspecting crowd. A spotlight circled above them. Dominic swallowed the lump in his throat, thinking back to the riot. _My show_ , he reminded himself. The cameras roved over the audience, which rustled excitedly as they tried to figure out what was going on. Dom was grateful for the hot itchy masks that lent them the anonymity they needed to pull off this act.

He’d always loved setting up a good surprise.

Security moved with them, gently parting the audience until they reached the pink-taped X on the ground. The spotlight stopped above them. Gavin quickly set up a mic stand, then moved to form a protective circle around him with the security guards. Dom whipped off his mask. The surrounding crowd cheered and pressed in close.

“Are you ready to lose your voices?” Dom shouted. Another cheer went up and phones flicked on all around him as he strummed the first few chords. The room was stifling with the heat of so many bodies pressed together and sweat dripped into Dom’s eyes. He paused to rake a hand through his hair and readjust his grip on the guitar pick. Excitement thrummed like live wires. Everyone brimmed with energy, and Dom couldn’t help but let out an exhilarated laugh. This might be the last time he sang this song, and sure as shit he was gonna give it his all.

_Today you made me feel irrelevant_

_Twisted my intelligence_

_Made it seem there’s no brain in my head_

_I’m like a skeleton, can’t shut my eyes_

_Right now I feel like I’m an alien_

_I’m so fucking dangerous_

_Cover up the evidence with medicine_

_I can’t find the light_

The words hit different tonight and tears sprang to his eyes. Everyone sang along, and many of those he could see were teary-eyed too. While he sang, he slowly turned in a semi-circle around the mic, trying to make eye contact with as many people as possible. One person caught his eye. A tall man with shoulder-length blond hair in the second row of the inner circle, brilliant blue eyes piercing his. He wasn’t singing along. And he definitely wasn’t teary eyed. Dom swivelled back to the mic and belted out the chorus.

_All I wanna do is kill somebody_

_Kill somebody, kill somebody like you_

_You, you, you, you_

The bass line kicked in, a heavy sepulchral whomp that shook the ground beneath their feet. The melodic combination of bass and acoustic was harmonious without drawing attention away from the lyrics. As he sang, he fed off the crowd’s energy. They came for his music but they stayed for him. And as they sang every word back to him that they’d memorized of their own volition, he realized that he didn’t need a special power for people to listen to him.

_All I wanna do is kill somebody_

_Kill somebody, kill somebody like you_

_You, you, you, you_

_Today you turned me like a corkscrew_

_Filed me like a lawsuit_

_Put words in my mouth that I don’t want you to_

_And I lost my clout_

His eyes flicked back to the stranger. Older, maybe 30, maybe 300. Who the fuck knew with age these days? The man stood, hands clasped in front of him, still as a statue, while everyone else swayed side to side and bopped along. His skin was flawless and not a drop of perspiration dotted his face. The man pinned him with his gaze and smiled.

_And my time is acting as my currency_

_You can’t take that away from me_

_Cheat the young with no accountability_

Turning away from the mic, Dom smiled at the crowd instead of singing the next line.

_Shoot me down._ They sang for him.

Dom kissed the mic and continued.

_All I wanna do is kill somebody_

_Kill somebody, kill somebody like you_

_You, you, you, you_

“Sing this with me!” Dom stepped back and let the crowd take over. Still the man didn’t sing. Maybe he didn’t know the words. His eyes never left Dom’s. Not that that was unusual, Dom was the star and was used to eyes on him. But there was something about him, foreign yet familiar, that turned the sweat trickling down his back icy cold.

He pressed his lips into the mic again and poured everything he had into the last of the song.

_All I wanna do is kill somebody_

_Kill somebody, kill somebody like you_

_You, you, you, you_

These lyrics were often misunderstood. Some took it to mean that he endorsed killing people, which couldn’t be farther from the truth. They didn’t understand that it had always been about himself. The dark parts of himself that he couldn’t stand. And about loving yourself, in spite of them. Dom stood for love and light, despite the dark.

Until today.

Today, he truly wanted to kill somebody.

When he finished the song and looked up again, the stranger was gone. He scoured the crowd for some sign of the beautiful blond while security escorted him backstage for the second intermission, but he was nowhere to be found, swept up into a sea of unfamiliar faces.

Static. Snow.

Dom flitted about the greenroom. He undid the straps holding down his vest and yanked it over his head. He scrambled out of his sweat-soaked combat pants and grabbed his dress from the hanger. He preferred going commando, which drove Gavin nuts, but in this instance they both agreed it prudent to don underwear. He quickly wiped the sweat off his chest with a towel, pulled on clean boxer briefs and slid into the black satin dress. The silky material rippled over his skin, clinging to his curves. Wearing a dress always made him feel sexy and dangerous. But now he was proper nervous, the dress sticking to his thighs as he made adjustments with trembling fingers. He was grabbing his creepers from the vanity when his eyes fell onto Sal’s script.

The black suede shoes fell to the floor. He propped himself against the counter with both hands and forced himself to take a deep breath. _Stop. Regain control. You’re okay. You’re okay. You can do this._

Forcing his motions to become methodical, purposeful, he picked the creepers back up. He slipped them on, propped one foot up on the countertop after the other and tied up the laces with quick, precise movements. The interlude was normally a quick two-minute break, just long enough for him to change into his dress for the second half of the show. Prolonging his return risked killing the hype and boring the crowd. Live music was a beast that was only sated when every last crumb and morsel of song had been devoured by the fans. But Dom knew that his true fans, his family, would wait for him. And if this were to be his last show, then he wanted to savour every moment.

Sal barged through the door and waved a Red Bull at him. “What’s taking you so long?”

Dom smoothed the front of his dress. “You’re the one who’s always saying make them wait for it.”

“Yeah, yeah, but I never told you to make me wait.” He held up the energy drink.

Dom declined with a shake of his head. It wasn’t the same if Tommy wasn’t bringing it. Sal threw it into the trash can by the door. “Let’s go then.”

Kicking the nervous energy out of his legs, he nodded.

Sal held the door open. “After you.”

Dom flicked his sweat-soaked hair out of his eyes. “Let’s blow this Popsicle stand.”

Sal furrowed his brow and held up his arm to bar the way. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” He indicated the script with a thrust of his chin. At the snap of his fingers, the paper appeared in his hands.

Static and snow threatened to creep in, to take over and kill the show. Dom swallowed hard and brushed past him. “I’ve always done better off script.”

Sal tsked and hounded him to the backstage area, hard on his heels.

Prior to the show, Sal had ensured Dom couldn’t interact with anyone, only letting Dom take the stage well after Adam and Michael. But now the entire crew was assembled backstage and Dom needed to check on them. Adam was polishing his guitar with the end of his shirt sleeve, while Michael stood there quietly, fingers tapping a beat on his thigh. Jackson and Gavin, still in their vests, were rummaging through a road case, and Tommy was fiddling with the camera slung over his neck. They all stared at him as he approached. Dom lifted his chin and schooled his face into a stoic mask. Days on end in a cramped tour bus sometimes had them at each other’s throats, but in the brief absence Dom missed them like crazy and was relieved to see them all in one piece. “You alright, boys?” They all nodded at him.

“What are you all doing back here?” Sal barked at the group. “You’re supposed to be playing through the interlude.”

“We were,” Adam said, “but Mikey broke a drumstick and didn’t have a spare, and Dom was taking forever.”

Sal pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jackson, it’s your job—”

“I know, I know,” Jackson said, holding up a drumstick bag and handing it over to Michael. “Just misplaced it, that’s all.”

“We’re good to go now,” Gavin added.

Sal snorted in disbelief. “I leave you alone for two seconds,” he said, glowering at Gavin as he paced back and forth. “I should just kill you all now. Crowds gonna think the show’s over.”

“We could let them think it’s the encore,” Gavin offered, earning himself a dark look. But Sal nodded.

Dom moved for the stage. Sal grabbed his arm, holding him back. “I told you I wouldn’t hurt them as long as you did what I said.” Sal released him and clapped his hands together. “Okay, time for the grand finale. Jackson, you and Gavin start load out. Adam, your Gibson isn’t going to get any cleaner, I can literally see my reflection. Michael, get your fucking sticks ready. Tommy, no shots. I want this all taped.”

“There’s a million cameras out there already,” Tommy argued, grudgingly swapping out his camera for the video recorder.

“This footage is for my personal collection.” Sal smiled darkly. “Alright, show time, boys. You all know what to do.”

Dom stalked to the row of guitars and glanced over his shoulder. Sal stood there with his hands held out, index fingers rolling circles in the air. Dom picked up his white fender, lovingly tracing its shape, eyeing the worn patch from strumming and fondly remembering the first time he’d picked up the guitar in his father’s music shop. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. We do all know what to do.” He made a show of checking the strap. Then he whirled around and flung his guitar at Sal with a loud cry.

Sal barely had time to register shock before the guitar smashed into his face. His cheekbone caved with a sickening crunch and blood splattered everywhere. He crumpled to his knees.


	7. Swan Song

Dom’s chest heaved. His breath came in ragged gasps, and his heart beat faster than Norwegian Death Metal. He needed his inhaler. He picked up his white Fender by the neck and wielded it like a sword. It dripped blood blacker than night.

“Now,” Dom gasped.

Adam, Gavin and Jackson scrambled into action, all jumping Sal. They grappled him to the ground. Tommy swung around, panning the camera to get a better view. Michael ran forward, unslinging his drumstick bag and unzipping it as he moved. Dom closed in, leaving a trail of black blood on the concrete. Michael caught up to him, drew out a machete, and tossed the empty case to the floor.

The pile heaved and writhed like a pit full of snakes.

“Shit,” Dom swore under his breath as the boys flew in all directions, flung by an invisible force. Adam crashed into a row of road cases, while Gavin and Jackson tumbled over the ground like limp rag dolls. Tommy ran and hid behind one of the road cases.

Michael raised the machete, but Dom stopped him with an arm across his chest.

Sal was bowed over, back hunched, body convulsing. His fingers twitched and spurted razor-sharp claws, which furrowed gouges into the concrete as he slowly rose to his feet. Half his face was caved in and blood dripped from his chin. Dom and Michael watched in horror as Sal’s face began to re-knit itself, the wound closing at inhuman speed. Sal lifted a blood-splattered hand and shoved his jaw back into place with the palm of his hand. It snapped back in with a crunch. He rolled his shoulders and adjusted the cufflinks of his ruined suit. When he lifted his head to regard Dom, his eyes were pitch black, devoid of iris or whites, just soul-sucking orbs of nothingness.

“You’re going to regret that,” the demon mumbled through a mouth full of broken teeth.

The trio faced each other like a high noon standoff.

But then Sal turned and moved for Adam, faster than Dom could react.

“Adam!”

Too late. He was too far away. The rest of the boys lay strewn on the floor, barely conscious. Sal closed the gap to Adam in three long strides and picked up the dazed guitarist, dragging him to his feet by his neck.

“Dom?” Michael said, flicking his machete like an impatient cat flicks its tail.

Dom shook his head.

Everything was going wrong.

“Let him go,” Dom yelled, the words coming out as a single word.

Sal laughed and shook Adam so hard his eyes rolled white. “Make me.” His smile widened, full of teeth. “Oh, that’s right. You can’t.”

Adam’s usually lovely dark curls were plastered to his forehead. He scrabbled at Sal’s hand in an attempt to loosen the hold around his neck, his face reddening as he fought for breath. Sal effortlessly yanked him higher so that his feet couldn’t touch the ground, and he kicked out wildly, jerking like a hooked fish.

“And what are you planning on doing with that toothpick?” Sal’s gaze slid to Michael as he inched closer, dragging Adam with him.

Michael gave the weapon an expert twirl.

Sal stopped, sniffed the air and scrunched his nose. “Holy water. You went through all that trouble.”

“No one ever pays attention to the drummer.” Michael ran his finger along the flat of the blade, inspecting it. “It was easy to sneak away and hit up a church to get this baby _—_ ” he swung the machete again, “anointed while you were obsessing over Dom.”

“And you thought I was too stupid to get out of the police station on my own,” Dom threw in.

Sal sneered, but he didn’t come any closer. “I can stand here all day and watch your friend die. Can you?” He gave Adam a sidelong glance. “Poor Adam is running out of time, already I can feel his heartbeat falter. Call off your dog, Dom, and let’s talk business.”

“You’re not gonna kill him,” Dom said cheekily, propping the guitar on the floor and leaning on it like a cane. “Can’t very well have a band without a guitarist. Unless you plan on picking up a six string.”

Sal’s face twisted as if the very thought were beneath him, but he didn’t relinquish his hold over Adam. “Tick Tock, stop the clock,” he sang mockingly.

Adam’s eyelids fluttered and his struggling slowed. Shit. Sal was calling his bluff. “Fine. Fine! Michael!”

“No way,” Michael protested, pointing the machete at Sal. “I can take him.”

Sal laughed.

Dom threw down his guitar. “Stand down, Michael.”

Michael jerked to a stop, the arm holding the machete drooping. He stared at some distant point.

Sal loosened his hold on Adam but didn’t release him.

“Put that machete back in its case, yeah,” Dom commanded.

Michael complied with jerky movements, trying to fight him. He lurched over to where he’d abandoned the case, placed the machete inside and zipped it shut.

Sal flung Adam to the ground in disgust. “All that meticulous planning gone to waste.” He strode over to the drumstick bag and kicked it across the floor, sending it sliding across the concrete, and into the velvety folds of the backstage curtain. “This is why you idiots need managers. Leave the thinking to those better suited.” He shook out his suit cuffs. “And I am better suited.”

“Fookin hell.” Dom sprinted over to Adam. He grabbed Adam’s face with both hands and patted his cheeks, gently at first, then harder when Adam didn’t respond. “C’mon, mate. Wake up. I love you man, don’t you dare give up on me. I swear I’ll never make fun of your ramen addiction ever again.” His hands trembled violently as he pulled Adam into his lap and held him close. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Don’t leave me.”

Seconds ticked away like centuries.

Finally, Adam choked out a grunt. “Ramen is life, bruv.”

Dom hugged him tighter, crying into his shoulder.

After a moment, Adam feebly pushed him off. “Let a guy breathe,” he gasped in a raspy voice. His breathing was shallow, but he was alive, and that’s all that mattered. He rolled over and sat up, back heaving as he sucked in breath after breath.

Something twisted in Dom. He’d always walked the line between light and dark, but his friends kept him grounded, kept him from venturing too far into the darkness. But now, Adam’s brush with death had catapulted Dom into the abyss. His soul darkened as if he’d snuffed out the candlelight with his bare fingers. He would not let Sal get away with this. He bunched the hem of his dress in his fist.

Sal laughed. “Oh, this is priceless. You humans sure know how to keep it interesting. But we have a show to finish and you WILL finish it. Keep your boys in line, Dom, or they all die.”

No one spoke.

“Do you hear me? I will kill all of you insignificant gnats if you don’t finish this show.” Sal whirled in a circle, spittle flying from his lips.

Dom hung his head and his shoulders drooped, even though inwardly he shook with rage. If there was one thing he hated, it was playing second fiddle. “Adam, when we get out there, just play the guitar.”

Adam’s brief look of shock faded to robotic compliance. Tears streamed down Dom’s face as he continued. “You heard him. Finish the show. Understood? Just play your guitar.” He turned to address each of them. “Michael, get back behind the skins. Just play the drums, nothing else. Tommy, I want you doing the usual and keep that camera rolling. Gavin and Jackson, wait here until after the show and prep load out.”

He got to his feet and glared at Sal. “Satisfied?”

“Not nearly.” Lifting a hand, Sal snapped his fingers. A tingling sensation spread across Dom’s lips. “You no longer get a voice.”

The sensation increased to a burn and spiked in unbearable pain. He opened his mouth to scream, but something tugged at his lips. Fire lanced his mouth, a hundred jagged teeth ripping into him. Dom screamed anyway, his cries stifled as his lips were pulled together. Sal stepped closer, his black eyes devoid of humanity. His mouth twisted into a sadistic smile, feeding off Dom’s fear and pain. Dom backed up, his screams tapered to a pitiful mewling. He tripped and fell to the ground. Scrambled back on all fours. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Tommy hiding in the shadows of the road cases, trembling hands holding the camera between his knees. He flashed Dom a petrified look and shrank deeper into the shadows.

Dom snapped his head to the front, not wanting to give him away.

Sal grabbed him by his hair and dragged him over to the guitars. “You’re just a messed up kid,” Sal sang, a mockery of his song _Casual Sabotage_.

Dom’s heart skipped a beat. He knew his own damn lyrics. He raised a hand to his mouth, gingerly probed the vertical ridges over his lips. The coppery tang of blood filled his mouth and unable to spit it out, Dom was forced to swallow. He glared at Sal, burning with hate but powerless to stop this. But Sal wasn’t finished with him yet. Sal forced him to his knees in front of Adam’s guitar, forcing his face close. “With sewn up lips.”

On all fours, Dom caught his reflection in the guitar’s polished surface. He would have screamed if he could open his mouth. Thick lines of bloodstained thread dug into his lips. His metaphor had turned into a living nightmare. Tears streamed down his cheeks, burning rivulets of lava as they ran over his lips and mixed with the blood.

Through the curtain, he heard the crowd chant his name.

Yungblud.

Yungblud.

Yungblud.

But the chanting had turned impatient, demanding like a pitchfork mob.

“I can take your voice as easily as I can give it to you,” Sal said. “I can rip your tongue out with nothing but a thought. Unless you go out on stage and give them what they want. And you know what they want, what they truly want.”

Dom squeezed his eyes shut.

Sal’s breath was hot in his ear. “They want to devour you.”

Dom’s eyes flicked open. His distorted reflection stared back at him with wide eyes, pleading, and he struggled vainly, the pain rendering him weak.

“Now let’s go kill the watching masses.”

He shook his head so violently blackness prickled at the corner of his vision. He couldn’t let any more people die.

“I understand.” Sal clapped him on the back. “You’re a bit tongue tied at the moment. Looks like I’m going to be doing the talking for you.”

Footsteps echoed as Sal left his side.

Dom crawled after Sal, watching him herd Adam and Michael to the stage.

He stopped at a road case, opened it and fumbled around blindly until his hands found the toolkit. Found the same box cutter that Michael had used. Clicked it open. Took a deep shuddering breath through a snot filled nose.

He raised the knife to his lips and began sawing. The threads snapped open, the sudden release sending pain flaring through swollen flesh. Blood splattered the ground before him. Black stars threatened to take him out. Dom kept his eyes on the spotlight that shone beyond the curtain. _Don’t you dare do it, don’t you dare touch my family._

Stolen applause sounded up to the rafters. The chanting rose to a crescendo of cheers before tapering off when they realized it wasn’t him on stage, but Sal.

Dom wouldn’t let anyone steal his show.

Forcing himself into motion, he staggered onto the stage, careening into the drum kit and knocking off a cymbal. He twirled around like a drunk. A scatter of uncertain cheers went up.

Sal already stood in front of the microphone, waiting for the applause to die down.

“We do apologize sincerely for the delay,” Sal said, hunching over the microphone to address the crowd. “But I assure you, we saved the best for last, and Yungblud is here to give you a show to _die_ for.”

Accepting it as part of the theatrics, the floor erupted with cheers again. Hoots and hollers pierced the air. Michael righted his cymbal and assumed his position behind the drums. Adam, looking pale and sickly, paced with his guitar. Sal turned his back to the microphone and grinned at Dom. “I see why you live for this shit.”

“Take me instead,” Dom shouted over the noise, every word a scorpion’s sting upon his lips.

Sal swooped close, threw an arm over his shoulder and pulled him in. “What will you give me in return for all those souls?” he asked, gesturing at the crowd.

“Those insignificant flies? When it’s the spider you want.”

“You would die for them, in their stead?”

“Yes.” Dom didn’t even hesitate. “Just leave them alone. No more death.”

Sal cocked his head. “Counteroffer. One last death.”

Dom swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded. “Alright, then,” he agreed, feeling numb. “One last death.”

“Accepted.” Sal released him but stayed beside him, most likely to ensure things went down according to his vision and wanting a front-row seat just like everyone else. Dom threw him a glare, and Sal stepped off to the side, relinquishing the stage.

Dom faced the microphone.

Every camera focused on him. Every eye trained on him. Everyone waited on him.

Dom mustered up all his courage. Death happened sooner or later, and in the end, wasn’t this an epic way to go?

“This song is called Die for the Hype,” he said, and spat a bloody wad onto the ground.

“C’mon, Adam, don’t just stand there like a lump,” Sal called from the sidelines. “I crushed your windpipe, not your fingers.”

Adam strummed the first chords.

Dom winced as he dabbed the blood from his chin. The back of his hand came back bloody.

Lips to kill for, ripped to shreds. People used to call him ‘one big mouth, just a big bloody mouth’ and now the last thing he’d been reduced to was ruined. He leaned into the mic, hissing with pain when his lips grazed the metal mesh. “Yungblud isn’t me. Yungblud is us. It always has been, and it always will be. We are Yungblud and nothing can harm us.” He shot Sal a glance and was rewarded a dark look, but Dom pressed on.

_Where the fuck am I?_

_Tell me did I just die?_

_Cause I don’t understand_

_Why I’m in a room I don’t recognize_

Working his way through the first stanza was torture, voice distorted through his torn up and swollen lips.

_A juvenile sinner, a car crash winner_

_Don’t let the devil take you out for dinner_

The fans chimed in for the chorus.

_I just want to die for the hype, for the hype_

_Crucified like Jesus Christ_

_I just want to die for the hype, for the hype_

_Crucified like Jesus Christ_

He spotted two young men with their arms around each other, covered in glitter and sporting rainbow shirts. Dom acknowledged them as he sang and the excited pair lifted their intertwined hands into the air as they danced. Dom wiped the tears from his eyes. This is what he had created. A safe space. Here, they could be themselves, in a safe place free from judgement. The more he looked into the crowd, the more he saw the fruit of his labour. The pride flag, the trans flag, the boys in skirts, and the girls with shaved heads and baggy pants. The pierced, the tattooed, the lost, and the found. How many years had he wasted searching for himself, sifting through scrutiny and scorn, admonishment and judgement, the mistaken belief that you only fit in if you looked and acted a certain way.

Dom signalled to Adam to play a looped riff so he could make his speech.

“I love you,” Dom spoke into the mic, but he looked at Adam.

He repeated it to the crowd. “I love you. I love you, and you, and you,” he pointed into the crowd. He’d found himself, his tribe, and his calling.

“I love you all,” Dom purred into the microphone.

Cheers and applause were his heartbeat of love.

He leaned into the mic. “Who will catch me if I fall?”

The crowd went wild. Hands shot into the air.

A single tear broke free and ran down Dom’s cheek. He let it fall. He would do this. He would do this for the people he loved, mere strangers but at the same time the best family he’d ever had.

Dom ripped the mic off the stand and gripped it in his fist. He roamed the stage, inching to the back and said, “There are people in this world who will try to tell you what to do, what to think, what to say.”

Sal’s face darkened.

“Do you know what I say to that?”

The field of hands sprouted middle fingers.

Sal watched him like a hawk, taking in his every move.

“I say BOLLOCKS to that.”

Sal stepped forward, but Dom was already running to the back of the stage.

Dom stopped level with the drum kit. He locked eyes with Michael. A mess of emotions swirled in Michael’s eyes that must have been mirrored in Dom’s own. Prevalent above all else, love. Michael’s eyes brimmed with the kind of love that came unconditionally, the knowledge that that person would do anything for you and had your back no matter what.

Dom wouldn’t say Sal’s script, he’d rather die.

And a deal was a deal.

Only Dom knew Sal wouldn’t honour that deal. Demons were hellbent on chaos and destruction, addicted to broken dreams and despair. Slating bloodlust was only temporary. Sal was watching Dom, and Dom had been banking on it all along.

The only way to tempt a glutton was to offer them even more.

He looked over at Sal. “See you there, ya twat.”

Dom sprinted past him and dove into the crowd. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! The mission is to get this book into Dom's hands. I can't do it without your help and support, tho! You can help by:
> 
> \- clicking kudos (the heart) or leave a comment. Tell me your favourite part. :)  
> \- following me on socials: Twitter and Insta @canadiansabs  
> \- tag Dom and the boys on my instagram posts  
> \- TELL ONE FRIEND about this story. Word of mouth is so powerful, and it only takes a minute.
> 
> Together, we are heard and can make this a real commemorative product for the 21stCL era. 
> 
> Rock on, my BHC peeps.🖤


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